24 Things I Hate About You
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: What's Christmas without a new and (mildly) horrifying case told through one Dr. Watson's list of complaints about his flatmate? Well. Sherlock!AdventCalendar
1. Interrupted Dates

**24 Things I Hate About You.**

**1.**

"Sherlock! I'm here. I assume it was important..."

John bursts into the flat, phone in hand, panting slightly. He expects to see the whirl of Sherlock's coat, expects to feel hands dragging him back down the stairs in a state of excited urgency, braces himself to grab his gun from the mantelpiece as they plunge back downstairs and back onto the streets of London. He expects impatience, shouted information and instructions. Police sirens maybe. There's nothing.

Silence.

John coughs slightly, and looks around.

There's no response.

Across the flat, he spots his flatmate sprawled motionless on the sofa. The doctor clears his throat again, shifts his weight to the other foot, and waits impatiently. Suspicion rises in his chest.

Sherlock stretches like a cat, yawns, and slowly rolls over to face his flatmate. He's not dressed in his suit and coat; rather in his pyjamas, and his hair sticks up in all directions. His eyes look a little dull, a little dopey, as if condensation has misted their icy glass. He blinks stupidly and slowly, and looks around. Eventually, his eyes settle on his flatmate.

He couldn't have looked more disinterested in John's presence if he'd tried.

His phone lies on the floor as if it's fallen from his hand and the reality of the situation suddenly becomes very clear. Sherlock's just woken up. And, there is absolutely nothing important that needs attending to.

John swallows this information with some difficulty, and tries to resist the urge to punch Sherlock in his smug little face.

Actually, he thinks, as the detective eases himself into a sitting position; if Sherlock doesn't have an exceptionally good reason for extricating him from what had been a very nice date with a very nice girl, then John rather thinks he could do without Sherlock's own personal brand of oddly captivating features anyway, and vandalising said features would therefore not be a problem.

"Well?" he prompts, hearing the irritation creep into his voice.

Apparently oblivious to his flatmate's blackening mood, Sherlock heaves himself from his sleeping place and pads quietly into the kitchen on bare feet. John follows significantly less gracefully.

"I was just wondering if there was any point breaking into the pet shop tonight," Sherlock muses, sniffing the inside of a very grubby looking mug. He's more talking to himself than to John, and grimaces slightly as the odour hits his nostrils. "Bit of a long shot, but we could find something."

He plonks the mug down, and gazes thoughtfully into space.

John stares at him.

"You brought me here... to ask me a question."

The doctor emphasises each syllable meticulously, teeth clenched tightly together. He angles his face rather pointedly away from Sherlock Holmes, avoiding looking at him. John gets the feeling that doing so would not be good for calm, rational thought.

Sherlock's next words do nothing to quell his bubbling anger.

"There was no rush."

John closes his eyes this time, and tries very, very hard to keep his voice level and reasonable.

"You texted me _seventeen _times!"

There's a pause, in which one party silently fumes, and in which the other watches curiously.

Eventually, Sherlock's huff breaks through the hostile silence, and the scraping of wood a few seconds later tells John he's settled himself at the kitchen table. He tries not to imagine the petulant scowl that Sherlock has no doubt employed.

Seconds pass. John risks a glance at the detective from beneath lowered eyelids.

Both of Sherlock's eyebrows are raised in mild disbelief and something resembling pity. His pale eyes flick rapidly across John's face as he catalogues how he fights to control his temper.

Sherlock notices him noticing, and smirks slightly. His eyes spark.

"She's too childish for you anyway."

That comment alone is almost enough to send a volatile John Watson over the edge, and a growl of wordless exasperation escapes him. He turns away, and storms into the lounge, just so that he physically can't reach Sherlock to harm him, appealing as the concept is.

"If she is, you definitely are," he snarls at him, stomping upstairs.

He misses the detective's perplexed frown, and how it changes to a quiet digestion of information as his bedroom door slams shut.


	2. Forgetting The Milk

**2.**

John Watson shovels cereal into his mouth very ungracefully, eyes following the rather more pristine figure opposite him, who was currently straightening his tie with one finger.

It is a marvel, John thinks, as he attempts to swallow what is an inhumanly large mouthful, how a good night's sleep dilutes anger. For instance, this morning, he can look at Sherlock and only want to see him publicly ridiculed.

Apparently Sherlock has been watching him too, because at that last thought, the corners of the detective's mouth tug upwards into a quiet smile.

There's a few moments of really quite amicable silence, in which John chews frantically, and Sherlock smooths down his suit jacket with careless precision, then brings his eyes up to meet his friend's.

"In my defence, John, she would have inevitably left you for a younger, more physically attractive man even if you could have found a way to tolerate her crude sense of humour: which you wouldn't have." Sherlock pauses, clearly examining the effects this morning greeting has on the doctor. "I was only saving you time and anguish."

John looks at Sherlock with a slight shake of the head, his annoyance melting into amusement. He feels his own expression betraying him, a small smile that breaks into a grin as he drops his empty bowl into the sink.

It was true: looks aside, she hadn't exactly been the pinnacle of female company, and Sherlock probably _had _saved him from some otherwise wasted weeks.

He was never, ever telling Sherlock that.

The detective disappears, apparently satisfied, and the doctor follows him out of the kitchen to scour the lounge for his coat, wincing as he catches sight of the time.

He was going to be late.

Again.

"I need you to pick up milk on the way back from work," Sherlock announces suddenly, reappearing from the hallway with his coat folded over one arm. John forgets his search for his own coat momentarily, letting out a bark of disbelieving laughter.

"Not bloody likely," he counters. "In two days you've ruined my date and now called me physically unattractive and old. You can get the milk, and you can manage not to use it for one of your experiments before I get home."

His stern tone drags a sigh from Sherlock's lungs, and earns him an exasperated roll of the eyes.

"You don't want me to find you physically attractive," Sherlock states grumpily, as if that simple fact made up for everything else. He's pulling on his scarf by the time John's fishing his coat from the back of the sofa, swearing under his breath about the time.

He acknowledges Sherlock's statement with a grunt, shoving the sleeves of his jumper through the arms of his jacket.

"No I don't," John tells him, looking up, and dashing for the door. "But I do want you to get the milk!"

* * *

When he arrives home from work, darkness has fallen. 221B is already bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights outside, and Sherlock Holmes is noticeable only by his absence.

Flicking on the lights, John abandons his coat by the door and heads to the fridge, in the vain hope that perhaps Sherlock has already been back and dropped off the milk while he was here.

No such luck. The fridge is completely bare, except for a bowl holding something brown and congealed that John would not care to identify. He snaps the door shut again, and quietly accepts that tea would have to wait until Sherlock got home.

Instead, he makes himself a cup of Sherlock's usual black coffee, and moves to sit with his laptop in the armchair, sipping his drink and lamenting the lack of milk. The coffee's a bit strong for him, and after about ten minutes he gives up on it and pours the remainder down the drain.

The flat is silent except for a soft thrum of rain that's just begun against the window panes. John sits and types, pausing every few minutes to think of a suitable adjective, or to re-read a sentence.

He's perfectly content in his task, and after about half an hour's work he leans back in his chair, stretches, yawns, and snaps his laptop shut.

John dozes, the steady beat of rain comforting him and drowning out the traffic outside. The flat is warm and his eyes slide shut, one hand curling around the arm of the chair.

Crashing footsteps on the stairs rouse him from his sleep.

Sherlock appears in the doorway, raindrops running over his skin and glinting in his hair…but most importantly, with a flimsy plastic carrier swinging dangerously from his left hand.

"Evening," John says, heaving himself upright and nodding as Sherlock dumps his bag on the kitchen table. He didn't expect an answer, and trying to shake his drowsiness, John reaches for the remote and flicks on the news unperturbed.

David Cameron's huge shiny forehead flashes onto the screen, the man surrounded by scuffling press and flashing cameras. John catches the words 'Leveson', 'press regulation' and 'betrayal' from the throng of reporters before he mutes it with a wry smile, leaving Cameron to gesticulate in silence.

His flatmate is busy piling his purchases onto the kitchen table. John's eyes scan the surface for a bottle of milk but, ominously, there's none to be seen. So far, Sherlock's assembled a large bottle of bleach, a kidney, five dead rats and is prodding with one long finger what John suspects is a human liver.

John narrows his eyes, feeling the first spark of annoyance igniting in him, and moves closer.

The carrier bag lies already abandoned and empty on one of the chairs.

"Sherlock…" he half growls, despair and irritation bubbling over as he watches the man turn his attention to his rats, holding one up to examine it under the kitchen light.

Sherlock does not reply. Instead, he mutters contentedly to himself, and sets about stowing away his new acquisitions. He deftly slots the bleach next to the cereal, and with fast, efficient precision, wraps the rats, liver and kidney in separate cling film pouches, arranges them well apart on a baking tray, and places them in the freezer.

It's like some grotesque distortion of childhood baking, and John almost laughs.

Sherlock brushes his hands together with triumphant finality, rests them on his hips and, letting a huff of air escape from his lungs, finally turns his eyes to his flatmate.

"John. Hello."

His voice is sharp, business-like. His eyes glint and flick back in the direction of the freezer.

"Milk?" the doctor asks weakly.

"_Milk?_"

The lack of comprehension in the detective's face makes John's heart sink.

"Yes, Sherlock. Milk. White, comes out of cows, you put it in tea. Remember someone asking you to _get it on the way home_?"

He can hear the weariness in his voice.

Sherlock looks utterly perplexed.

Then, slowly, his expression changes to one of dawning realisation.

That second expression is wiped as quickly as the first, and the detective begins pacing agitatedly around the kitchen, eyes steely and unrepentant.

"You deleted it." John says. His voice sounds tired and monotone.

Sherlock doesn't answer, just paces, his eyes darting back and forth as he no doubt recalls some fascinating piece of information that John really doesn't care about at the moment.

"You don't delete the milk, Sherlock!"

The continued lack of response begins to grate on his nerves. Always the same; anything not instantly fascinating or '_useful'_ got deleted…

"Sherlock!" he barks, causing the detective's head to snap round to look at him. The surprised look in those grey irises is actually quite gratifying, and John ploughs on. "You do not delete the milk. I don't exactly ask much of you, and for a man supposedly so intelligent you seem capable of very little. Especially if it matters to me!"

There's quite a shocked silence from both sides.

The doctor's last sentence reverberates around his own mind.

Avoiding Sherlock's gaze, John ducks into the lounge, turns the TV volume up as high as is acceptable and tries to continue watching the news. He only half listens as the Prime Minister's harried excuses throb in his eardrums, uncomfortably aware of Sherlock behind him, analysing his outburst.

He pulls a cushion over his face, and groans into the material.

He couldn't even try and solve this with a cup of tea.

Damn.


	3. Getting Us Arrested

**3.**

"John, I need to get a sample, could you – "

"There's not exactly a lot of room – "

"You're 'not exactly' using it efficiently, and I need – "

"Sherlock, shh!"

They both freeze, a cellophane bag of frozen rats dangling from Sherlock's fist.

Their bickering has drowned out everything else, and with a thrill of horror John hears the scream of police sirens, and notices flashing blue lights outside.

"If we're trapped in here," John warns, instantly regretting the heavy weight of his gun in his pocket. "I _swear_ I will murder you."

Sherlock turns. The detective looks calm, but John feels his fingers dig painfully into his upper arm and drag him back into the shadows of this tiny storeroom.

"We're stuck," he confirms; John can hear the air hissing between gritted teeth. "Damn."

His irritation is somehow calming; John's become used to a frustrated detective pulling a solution out of the air at the very last minute, and is sincerely hoping that now is one of those times.

Glass shatters fifteen feet away, the front door is kicked down, and police officers swarm inside the main body of the shop. John feels his heart hammering in his throat, and glances sideways at the man cutting off the blood circulation in his arm. He's muttering and growling under his breath, hopefully trying to work something out – because from John's position, extreme violence looks like the only way out, and also not really an option.

"They're going to find us," John warns, his eyes darting to the one tiny window through which he can see the shop. The team of officers are scouring it quickly, and the door concealing John and Sherlock is unlocked, if stiff.

"I know."

Something crashes to the floor.

"You…?" John stutters. He stops, swallows this information with some difficulty; then looks at his flatmate. "I suppose this was inevitable."

"What?" Sherlock whispers.

Both sets of eyes focus on the door.

"Us. Getting arrested. Hiding in a cupboard."

They glance sideways simultaneously and catch each other's eyes. An irresistible grin spreads across John's face and he looks quickly away...but in the confined space he can feel Sherlock begin to shake with laughter – it's infectious, and despite the fact the police are only separated from them by a thin strip of wood, John can't help but join in.

"We mustn't giggle at crime scenes!" he mutters, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs and trying to muffle his own laughter with his sleeve.

"It isn't a crime scene," Sherlock hisses back. He gives it a beat, then adds: "yet."

A fresh wave of giggles overwhelm them that prove hard to suppress. The more the reality of their situation sets in the more they laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Something heavy slams into the door of their storeroom, effectively silencing them both.

"Pull your jumper over your face," Sherlock orders under his breath. John feels him tense again, and a hand deftly pickpockets him, relieving him of his gun.

"Foolproof," John mutters sarcastically.

"You haven't volunteered a better plan."

"No," John agrees, pressing his lips together to stop himself sniggering. Sherlock elbows him hard in the ribs. "But I don't swan around London proclaiming myself to be more intelligent than everyone else!"

"I _am_."

"Shh!"

A barrage of officers burst into their room, causing them both to stumble backwards, tripping over piled cat food, desperately clutching their clothes to their face. With a thrill of horror, John recognises Sally Donovan through the wool.

A gunshot rings out from beside him, spraying sawdust over their feet, and suddenly they have more room. Sherlock's up on his feet again, waving the weapon threateningly, and the officers have no choice but to give him space as he brandishes the thing in their faces, particularly lingering on Sally Donovan.

Jesus _Christ_, John thinks. _Later._

Sherlock's out of the door in a flash, whirling to cover John, but he's too late: one of the policemen has stuck out their boot and John Watson comes crashing to the floor, and his jumper is ripped from his fingers and face.

It's only one moment, but Sherlock seems to hesitate; and when he does make his dash for the door he's too late for himself as well – Donovan goes for him and has him pinned against one of the shelves in an instant.

He puts up a good fight: pottery hedgehogs and dog bones crashing to the floor around him, but she doesn't let go, and after a good minute's scuffle has him securely handcuffed, albeit still spitting and snarling in wordless fury.

"See," she says to John who, rammed into a cold concrete floor isn't entirely in the mood for her irritating jibes about his flatmate. "He's got you arrested. Won't say I told you so."

Sherlock growls, trying to jerk his hands from her grip. She smirks.

They're led out of the pet shop with their heads down, and shoved ungraciously into the back of a police car. John's gun is jerked unceremoniously from Sherlock's fingers.

"Well done," John says, turning to his friend as the engine grumbles into life. He's not sure whether to laugh or to be annoyed. "Nice."


	4. Shoulder Sleeping

The cell is cold and dark. John and Sherlock sit side by side against the wall, neither saying much. John's contemplating the fact that on top of his ASBO, this is going to make getting work very tricky in the future. He looks at Sherlock, who appears to be contemplating his rats, which he has somehow managed to smuggle in here. With a shake of the head, John thinks that at least Sherlock's self-invented position didn't require trivial little things like CRB checks. He sighs, and stares numbly at the little white tiles that populate the wall.

"These rats are definitely poisoned, John," Sherlock says, after a while. "I can't tell precisely how or with what – but they've undoubtedly been tampered with."

He waves one of them under John's nose.

"You can smell: a slight unnatural tang…"

John recoils a bit.

"I believe you," he assures Sherlock, shifting away from him and the rat. He frowns. "Why?"

Sherlock shifts up next to him, resting his chin on his kneecaps.

"No idea. It has to be linked to that billionaire's wife found dead, though."

"Why?"

"Her shop. Her stash of poisoned rats. Her expensive and illegal snakes."

"You what?"

Sherlock glances at him.

"Expensive and without a license, illegal snakes. King cobras. Didn't you see the skins: behind all that sawdust."

John shakes his head absently.

"Not really."

Sherlock frowns at him and falls silent, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His lips move infinitesimally as ideas form and dissolve in his mind, swirling and fluctuating. The activity of his mind is reflected in the most miniscule of movements – tensing and relaxing of his back, the tightening of his facial muscles, a tiny tick underneath his left eye.

He stays in this state for perhaps an hour. John watches him for a while; he enjoys watching Sherlock think, it's oddly captivating…but as time stretches on and cold sets in, even that loses its appeal, and he ends up staring resolutely at his knees, trying not to wallow in self-pity.

Eventually the detective is still. He sits, staring forwards, his eyes vacant.

"The question, John, is why someone would want to sell _and then_ _poison_ highly illegal snakes…and how that's now got a woman killed."

"And: how we're going to find anything out while we're stuck in here," John supplies, the prospect of a new and interesting case somehow making their situation seem worse.

Sherlock doesn't have an answer for him, and says nothing.

He just scowls, and slumps his head on John's shoulder.

After about ten minutes the weight of Sherlock's head – not to mention the slightly too familiar way he's now tucked it into the crook of John's neck – is becoming uncomfortable, and the doctor turns to shift him, judging him to have had quite enough time there.

He's fast asleep.

Eyes squeezed shut, his breathing settling into a steady rhythm; he looks entirely peaceful and content.

Leaning his head on the wall behind him, John decides to leave him: it wasn't often Sherlock slept, and if they didn't get locked up for good, he was unlikely to sleep much in the days ahead… if he took on the case, of course.

Hell, John thinks to himself – they were unlikely to escape a prison sentence – it was breaking and entering no matter how much Sherlock would plead his good and logical intentions, not to mention the possession and use of a firearm…plus all the damage they'd caused trying to evade the police. Things looked pretty bleak.

Nonetheless, he leaves his friend be.

Come the morning, the aching tiredness and the excruciatingly stiff neck, John lives to regret that decision.


	5. Domineering Family Members

**5.**

"Ah, John," Mycroft says, causing the doctor's head to jerk upwards in surprise. The 'British Government' is standing, staring at him through the bars of the cell. He's wearing a rather amused-come-sly smile, and John is a bit wary. He glances sideways at the man's sleeping brother, still crippling his (right, thank God) shoulder.

"Hello Mycroft," John replies, watching him carefully. The glint in his eye is not dissimilar to one Sherlock sometimes has – usually when he wants to persuade someone to do something for him.

Under John's suspicious gaze, Mycroft lazily procures a key from his pocket and lets himself into their cell, pulling the door shut behind him. Unlike the unholy screeching noise it had made the night before when opened and closed, Mycroft manages to make it glide over the concrete noiselessly.

Not for the first time, John wonders if the Holmes brothers are in fact entirely human.

He seats himself on the very edge of the tiny bed, knees pressed together, umbrella at his side. He takes a little while to settle himself, but once sufficiently comfortable, Mycroft turns again to John.

It's with a little ruefulness that John acknowledges to himself that, physically, he's in rather the weakest bargaining position. Nothing says dignity quite like crouching on the floor with a consulting detective sleeping on your shoulder, even if he is the only one in the world.

John clears his throat a little self-consciously, and looks up at the elder of the Holmeses.

"I suppose you've come to announce you've pulled a lot of strings to get us out of here, and to negotiate how we repay you?" he says, feeling a bit defiant and giddy. It's definitely the lack of sleep.

Mycroft smirks.

"How very like him you've become, John," he remarks, examining the tip of his umbrella, supremely relaxed. He doesn't have to mention names for them both to know precisely to whom he refers. "Just as cynical as to my motivation, except you also have the capacity to jump to brainless conclusions simultaneously."

He smiles again, filling John with a deep dislike of the man. It's not unlike the feeling he experiences when Sherlock sneers at his blog, except that that is not usually coupled with a firmly entrenched mistrust. Also, the feeling attached to Sherlock tends to fade very quickly. Mycroft's hasn't yet.

"I suspect it's correct," John persists, the tiredness jangling his already fraught nerves and making uncooperative Holmeses even more irritating than usual.

"Quite. But brainless nonetheless – reaching a correct conclusion with no consideration does not equate to proper thought."

"Right," John says through his teeth, marvelling at his own patience. Sherlock would have undoubtedly thrown a hurricane-strength temper tantrum by now.

Safe to say, he's beginning to sympathise.

"The question is, John: why were you and Sherlock breaking into – ah – 'Anemone Sky Pets' in the first place?"

The look of distaste that flashes across his face at the revolting flowery name is almost comical.

Or was that just the hysteria setting in?

John looks at him quite calmly.

"I suspect you know the answer to that," he says. His voice is so straight it verges on rudeness.

Mycroft's reproving stare seems to clarify that this did not go unnoticed, but John finds he cares very little.

"John…"

"I could be wrong," John says, "but even if you didn't already know the answer, I _suspect_ that's none of your business."

"It is if the pair of you wish to avoid a jail sentence. I don't think use of a firearm against police will go down well in court, do you, Dr Watson? Tut tut."

John glares at him, and shifts his torso a bit, the hard wall hurting his back. Sherlock's breath still tickles the skin of his throat, the detective apparently oblivious to the less than friendly confrontation happening right under his nose.

"_Fine._"

"Go on."

"Sherlock's investigating a case brought to him by a client whose wife has just died."

The two waking men stare at each other, one hostile, one calculating. John's aware his tone is a little short and probably a little discourteous to a man who's effectively their 'get out of jail' card, but it's a very kneejerk reaction around Mycroft.

"Luckily," Mycroft begins, his tone significantly colder than it had been, "I know of the case you describe and do not object to my little brother taking it on."

He pauses for breath, and although the coldness in his voice remains, a smile starts to play around his lips.

"However – Sherlock has been spectacularly absent in my life of late – and in return for your release I shall require at least two cases worth of legwork."

John nods, privately wondering which country had elections coming up in the near future.

Then, he wondered what Sherlock was going to do to him when he discovered what John had agreed to.

_Christ._

"As for you," Mycroft continues, and John's head snaps up, suddenly alert. "I'd appreciate it if you could – occasionally – update me on Sherlock's activities."

"What about the blog?" John asks.

"Well," Mycroft chuckles. "As I said before, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with" – his eyes drop pointedly to Sherlock, whose face is happily snuggled into the warmth of John's neck – "but with the deepest respect, Dr Watson, your _blog _not only is erratically updated, I also suspect it skims over certain aspects I may be interested in. Good day."

And with that, he unfolds himself from the bed and sweeps from the room, leaving the door of the cell open, almost as if by accident.

John runs a hand over his face and yawns.

Mycroft Holmes on no sleep was _not_ a good recipe.

However, with him gone, John feels a wave of unadulterated gratitude engulf him, and decides that cooperating might not be the worst thing he could do...


	6. Stupid Ideas

**6.**

"John," Sherlock says. His tone verges on bored, as if he were reciting the weather forecast. "I think we should join the Women's Institute."

John immediately inhales a lot of tea and starts violently choking – he puts it down to the shock of such a ludicrous suggestion; earning himself a scornful look from across the room for his pains.

Still, it takes him a good half minute to recover from the resulting coughing fit and to arrange his face into a suitably appalled look to aim at his flatmate.

"I can see a tiny flaw with that plan, Sherlock."

"Can you," Sherlock retorts. It's definitely not a question. His back is turned, and his tone of voice implies that any possible 'flaw' John can produce will be unequivocally wrong.

"Yes – we're both men."

Sherlock turns abruptly, a look of utter despair etched across his features.

"Men can be members."

"Really," John snorts, doubting that fact very much.

"Really."

The steeliness of the detective's gaze suggests he is sincere, which causes John's heart to sink, and begs one important question…

"_Why _do you want to force me to join the Women's Institute?"

The look Sherlock gives him is so disparaging, John thinks that were he some kind of delicate plant, he would have probably just withered and died.

As it is, being a soldier and more than a little bit resigned to blinding arrogance every now and then, he just tilts his head slightly to the side, and stares back at Sherlock calmly until the man deigns to answer the question.

"Firstly: the dead woman was a member of this particular branch, and there have been various other intriguing happenings surrounding members of this particular group which need proper investigation. Also, women's groups are indispensable for gossip – "

"Bit stereotypical," John interjects. Sherlock glares at him and continues blithely.

" – which will be most easily harvested from _inside_. As will anything else worth investigating, especially as – as you so astutely observed – we have the disadvantage of being male."

John gapes a bit, and shakes his head.

"I don't have any choice in this, do I?"

No answer comes, which John takes as a resounding 'no'. Feeling a bit peeved, he fires off an update text to Mycroft in an act of private revenge.

_Sherlock and I are joining the WI. 'Surrey Federation'. JW._


	7. Masks

**Henceforth, everything I write about Wandsworth WI is entirely fabricated and does not intend to reflect or represent them in any way. **

**7.**

It takes John and Sherlock one month precisely to become firm members of the Wandsworth WI. It takes a good deal of hard graft – far too much, John thinks – but after a month's offensive that comprises of coordinating bake sales, religiously attending the book club, making fools of themselves for charity and generally being helpful and non-imposing, John and Sherlock become normal, and part of the group. The initial suspicion at two men's sudden desire to join has faded, replaced by warmth and friendship. If anything, John feels guilty for that, although many things were worth watching Sherlock Holmes lying in a baked bean bath, or decorating baby pink cupcakes at 221B with a disgusted scowl.

What peeves John slightly – not that he'd admit it – is that Sherlock is undoubtedly the women's favourite. Of course, the army doctor puts this partly down to his cheekbones and those oddly captivating eyes, but Sherlock has really wheeled out his charm in full force: he'll run errands, listen for hours, smile, compliment the efforts of anyone he works beside with shy sincerity, be a shoulder to cry on – all the while harvesting his precious scraps of information that he'll scrawl out later and pin to the wall of their flat. John's perfectly courteous to the whole group too, but it is slightly frustrating that his genuine efforts are rather outdone by Sherlock's façade.

On the plus side, the slightly camp undertone that Sherlock's introduced into his voice is _hilarious._

At present they sit in a festive crafting class, making Christmas cards and eating mince pies. When John had informed Sherlock of how they'd be spending their evening, the look in Sherlock's eye was so fierce, John wondered if he might prefer to join whoever it was that seemed to have a penchant for killing off the members of Wandsworth WI. However, that earlier resentment was nowhere to be seen now. Sherlock was practically _glowing_ as he arranged glittery snowflakes across his card and chatted merrily to the lady beside him.

"…and Sandra's racehorse got ill last weekend, didn't she – " Sandra nods from the across the table, a huff of air leaving her lungs, she looks understandably upset " – not to mention Mary's little girl as well, no one's seen her since…"

Sherlock blinks, and for some reason John senses the elation radiating off him.

His face is a mask of interested concern.

"Oh _God_," he replies, his eyes wide and sad and fixed on Linda, to whom he was speaking. "That's awful! Who'd believe it? Five members of one group – one dead, three with dead animals, and one whose darling _daughter_ has gone, too…"

He counts off the misfortunes on one hand as he speaks.

Watching him, John also hears Sherlock's 'interesting' in the subtext, and shakes a bit more glitter onto his Christmas tree.

"Is Mary alright?" the detective adds, peering at Linda in a distressed sort of way.

"I spoke to her on the phone this morning," Jane pipes up, winding pipe cleaners around her fingers. "She's distraught – but…"

The woman shrugs, and gives a sad smile.

"God…" Sherlock repeats. "Well, send her my best wishes."

* * *

"I'll tell you what," John says, looking up from his laptop. "Every single member of this group is minted. I mean, the _works_ – second houses, you name it…"

He trails off, and looks at his flatmate.

Back at Baker Street, the mask is undoubtedly off – Sherlock is irritable, excited, agitated. He paces up and down past their evidence wall, re-reading his notes to himself and rubbing his hands together excitedly. He acknowledges John's comment with a jerk of the head, and continues in his silent deductions.

"I _think_…" he says eventually, looking up at John and grinning with barely contained glee. "I think we've got a mistake."

"Serial killer?" John asks, because he's heard that phrase before.

"Need more data. The pattern's certainly broken though – why?"

John sits patiently in the armchair, and watches Sherlock reason with himself.

"Pattern?" he asks, quietly intrigued.

"Yes – four dead pets and one dead child. Mary had a reasonably valuable pedigree dog – so why did her daughter die when every other time it's been the animals targeted?"

John frowns.

"I thought it was: one dead wife, _three _dead pets and one dead kid," he says. Something dawns on him. "Hey – so this about money?"

Sherlock whirls round, hands in his hair.

"The dead woman's stallion was killed before she was. Presumably, all the other women with deceased animals are similarly in danger. Need more data to be sure, but the child is the anomaly."

They lapse into silence, only the tapping of the keys on Sherlock's laptop breaking through the quiet.

"Husbands murdering their wives for their money?" John suggests tentatively. Sherlock scoffs, not looking up from the screen.

"Thought had occurred. Doesn't fit with the deaths of valuable animals though. Need more data, John."

John watches him for a while, wrestling with himself as he debates the idea of warning the women who had become their friends.

He knows Sherlock would never allow it, that it would blow their cover, and might prevent them from solving this altogether, but his stomach squirms at the idea of doing nothing.

Because, what then separated him from murderers, from people like Moriarty? How was allowing people to die so much different to wielding the weapon himself?


	8. Not Caring

**8.**

One quick bout of Googling later, and the two men are back on the streets of London.

Their breath rises visibly in the cold night air, and the taller of them steps languidly into the road to hail a cab.

John waits on the curb, eyes rolling skywards and raking across the spectacular smattering of stars, then dropping back down and checking the time on his phone. He nearly drops it twice, fumbling with cold fingers.

According to the little glowing screen, it's ten to one already, and if past experience was anything to go by, the doctor suspects they were in for a long night. He tries not to think about tomorrow's arbitrary early morning, but as soon as the thought flits across his mind he can't quite stifle the resulting yawn.

It earns him a nasty look from Sherlock, which he ignores.

They climb into the vehicle the second it levels with the pavement, John rubbing his bare hands together in relief…even in those few minutes they've stood outside, a biting numbness has crept into his fingers, dying them a mottled purple. Inside the cab, they're slowly returning to their normal rosy colour, but John's face is still raw and tingling from the wind.

Sherlock affords him a sidelong glance, removing his gloves to scroll through his phone.

"If you need a pair…" Sherlock says absently, jabbing rather aggressively at the screen of the phone. He growls under his breath in frustration, and types with what John is sure is unwarranted venom.

"What?" John asks, his frozen skin briefly forgotten in the oddity of the statement.

"Gloves. If you need some I can easily source them. Damn!"

Sherlock shoves his phone violently into his inside pocket, and scowls out of the window.

When he says nothing for a full five minutes, John senses something is amiss. He frowns.

"What now?" he asks, watching the brooding expression on his friends face reflected in the dark window of the cab. Christmas lights and shop displays flash past, but Sherlock sits bolt upright, lips pressed together, eyebrows furrowed and eyes angry and glaring.

"Mary's dead," Sherlock announces, sliding down in his seat slightly. He sounds more irritated than anything else, and huffs, yanking his phone out from his jacket again. "Suicide. _Typical_."

John closes his eyes, and tries to quell a rising anger.

"Dead?" he repeats. Something shifts in him as he sees only the inside of his eyelids: a faint twinging in his chest. They'd met Mary, befriended her. She was nice – a little bossy – but good natured, friendly. They'd got along.

Therefore, the indifference in Sherlock's voice makes John want to scream.

"Jesus _Christ, _Sherlock, can you please stop treating death like a bloody _inconvenience_?"

They glare at one another.

"It is an inconvenience!" Sherlock snaps back. "Analysing the living is quite different to analysing the dead – important things like motivation, desire, love…they're all gone, all _wiped_. Now, I'm likely going to be forced to bribe Mycroft with legwork and probably_ cake_ just to access CCTV footage that will show me precisely what I could have deduced had Mary not decided to throw herself off a building!"

It takes some effort on John's part to hold his tongue and not punch his flatmate.

"Try and remember a woman's just taken her own life," he says quietly. When he's treated to some more of Sherlock's sulky silence, he elaborates a bit. "As much of a shock as I'm sure it is to you, grief and suicide are generally considered more important than pathetic childhood feuds, Sherlock."

John too lapses into silence; he's angry and justifiably so. He feels Sherlock's eyes on him, but does not meet them.

"I've disappointed you again," Sherlock remarks. The offhand nature of the comment annoys John almost as much as his dismissal of Mary's suicide had.

"Congratulations," he retorts savagely. "How astute of you."

* * *

When they arrive at the scene the two are barely on speaking terms, their only form of communication being John's occasional grinding of his teeth, followed moments later by Sherlock's exasperated eye rolling. It doesn't exactly help that Sherlock bounds off happily the moment a bemused Lestrade points him in the direction of the body, radiating pent up glee and John is left to explain what he's so pleased about.

Turns out it was only a coincidence they'd crossed paths with the Met…who were here purely to deal with a perfectly ordinary suicide...

_If your brother doesn't buck his ideas up, I'm going to kill him. JW._

Sherlock's back five minutes later, breathless and grinning. This does not improve John's current estimation of the man.

_Ah. My sympathies. MH._

"Definitely suicide," he reports enthusiastically, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Definitely an anomaly and almost certainly an accident."

He beams at John and Lestrade. The latter folds his arms and shifts his weight; John does nothing bar pointedly look away.

"I need to see the body of the child," Sherlock announces, seizing John's forearm and dragging him away. "I have a hunch our cosy little WI group aren't quite as innocent as they'd like us to believe, but one of them's just slipped and killed her own daughter – bad luck for her, but good luck for _us…_Houston, we have a mistake! Do you know where can we get a cab from here? I need to go to the morgue."


	9. Using Molly

**Many thanks to all readers/reviewers/favouriters/followers – I am _insanely_ flattered. That's not to say I wouldn't appreciate some more of it, though…**

**9.**

"Thanks _so_ much Molly," Sherlock says, his baritone warm and almost sincere, pecking her on the cheek.

John inwardly groans, watching as her face lights up and the cheek where he kissed her warms to a rosy pink. She presses her lips together and tries not to look too flustered, furiously avoiding eye contact.

Molly follows Sherlock down to the morgue, John trailing behind the pair of them. He watches how the shorter figure scurries to catch up with the taller, sees how she tries to fall into step with him casually, hears how her voice hitches slightly every time the detective addresses her… despite her best efforts to prevent it.

His heart goes out to the poor girl, because frankly Sherlock had that effect on people and was oblivious to it except when it directly benefitted him. It was a daily revelation to John that Sherlock could tolerate his being alive, and the fact that he actually valued John's opinion was nothing short of bloody _miracle_. And, he wasn't in love with him like poor Molly Hooper.

Well, maybe a little bit. But not in that way.

That said, it was also a daily revelation to John that _he_ could tolerate _Sherlock_ being alive– at least there was some common ground, then.

Molly wheels the body out for them, despite it being gone two in the morning, and John backs against the wall with her, content this time to watch Sherlock from a distance.

He's calmed down in the cab on the way here, remembered that he shared a flat with a sociopathic _idiot_, and with a small stab of guilt has accepted that Sherlock never cares about the victims, it's just how he works. However, John doesn't think he can take any more malicious comments, unintentional or otherwise, about Mary and her daughter (called Felicity, apparently), so thinks it safer to hang back with Molly, at a safe distance from the detective's muttering.

"You don't have to do this," he says, looking at the mortician, and then back at Sherlock, and then at her again.

He watches her watch him for a bit.

"I know," she says. She looks tired, and the happy flush that had risen up into her cheeks has long disappeared. "I just – "

She shrugs. They both look back at Sherlock, who's holding a sample of something up to the light.

"I'll be upstairs," he announces curtly, suddenly jerking from his examination and sweeping past them in a whirl of blue coat tails.

The two he leaves behind stare after him sporting identical expressions of surprise. They turn, spot the expression on the other's face, and grin at each other, before following the detective at a rather more sedate pace.

* * *

"I was right," Sherlock crows, the moment they walk through the door. His eyes don't move from the lens of the microscope, one hand adjusting the focus on the side. John walks to his side straight away; Molly loiters a bit further off.

"Right about what?"

"This isn't straightforward – "

"Wonderful."

" – it's a long chain of events, to make it as hard as possibly to trace the deaths back to the perpetrator: the poison in the rats is what has caused the death of the animals and of Mary's daughter…there's clear traces in all the victims…as well as tiny fragments of snake skin in the mouth. Remember what I said about the cobras?"

John blinks.

"You say all the victims…sorry, being a bit obtuse here…surely you've only looked at Felicity?"

Sherlock finally drags his attention from his microscope to glare at John.

"What do you suppose I've been doing for a month?" he asks, voice appalled. "I do not spend a whole month trying to join a women's group when there's _fun _stuff going on!"

"Right."

"All the women with dead animals – and now child – have bought king cobras from Anenome Sky Pets…and rats to feed them. Those snakes have then mysteriously become ill and died…and by sheer coincidence come into contact with other animals in the house after death…who have similarly mysteriously become ill and died – "

"Bit too much 'mystery'?" John asks, grinning.

"Exactly. Very elaborate measures to go to, to just maliciously destroy valuable animals."

"How does that get our WI members killed?"

"Well Mary committed suicide when she accidentally killed her daughter, John."

"So it's them?"

"_Precisely_."

"And somebody's not happy with them doing that? Husbands maybe? Revenge?"

"Maybe," Sherlock repeats, his voice breathless. He eyes meet John's, glowing, and a wide infectious grin spreads across his face. "I don't know."

With that, he leaps from his chair and bounds from the room, seizing John's hand as he passes.

They're on the floor below before the door slams shut, leaving Molly Hooper looking steamrollered and more than a little unstable.


	10. Texting At Work

**10.**

John's 8am start later that same morning is even less enjoyable than usual.

That's not to say he doesn't love his job – he can think of few things more worthwhile – it's the getting out of bed that's the issue.

Or in this particular case, not having actually got in, in the first place.

Settling himself in his office, John feels the beginnings of a splitting headache throbbing somewhere around his temples.

With a grimace, he reaches for his coffee, but the cardboard container is too light, and it quickly becomes apparent to him that he's already drunk it all. Deflated, John lobs the empty cup across the room into the bin, missing spectacularly. Clearly, tiredness affected his aim.

He grapples with heavy eyelids, craving some of Sherlock's 'improved' coffee – or, to phrase it another way, coffee with about five times the amount of caffeine in it that it should have. John tends to avoid the stuff because it gives him horrible stomach ache, but right now he'd kill for a cup of it.

He runs a weary hand over his face and stifles a yawn.

John's just mustered the energy to begin checking over some paperwork on his desk when his phone goes, feebly vibrating in the pocket of his jacket.

_John – Margaret's husband has gone bankrupt. SH._

Blinking stupidly in spite of the caffeine, John stares at the screen of his phone, and tries to remember who the hell Margaret is. He gives up.

_Who's Margaret? JW_

_Someone's slow this morning. SH._

Beside him, the computer beeps into life, and something clicks in John's tired brain.

_Oh right, first victim, owner of that shop. JW._

The screen on the monitor flashes up, and as John logs on, something else clicks, and he snatches his phone back up off the table.

_Hang on, I'm at work. Why am I even replying? JW._

The response to _that _is almost instant, and John stares at it, fighting to keep a smile off his face.

_Because I'm interesting, and work is boring. SH._

John gives a soft 'ha' in the back of his throat, and his lips twist into a half-smile. The smug expression the other man is no doubt wearing at this moment is practically emanating through those little black letters.

_Correction: work is useful, and you are irritating. JW._

_Sounds a bit dull. SH._

Haggard eyes flick to the clock above the door, the information they reap causing the owner of them to almost physically deflate. The eyes move from the clock to the phone, and back again. John chews his lower lip.

He can't quite quell that curiosity.

_Okay, so this is about money? I thought he was a billionaire. JW._

_Not anymore. SH._

John almost laughs. Then:

_I thought you were 'at work'. SH._

_Just answer the pissing question. JW._

_It would appear so. Of course, it could just be a coincidence, but the fact that all the women involved have similarly rich spouses does rather ruin that idea. SH._

John nods absently to himself, his eyes settling on the clock again. He seems resigned somewhat, but squares his shoulders nonetheless.

Then, he gets up, straightens his clothes in the dull reflection of the window, and fires off one last text.

_Jesus. Work now, so sod off. JW._

With that, he stows his phone in his pocket and makes his way into the waiting room to collect his first patient.

John mercifully manages to stay awake and coherent through all his appointments – that first one a teenage boy with a strange lump on one of his legs. He seems mildly embarrassed, and John gets the feeling he's a bit nervous too... but his examination suggests there's absolutely nothing to worry about, just a swelling. He refers him to a specialist at the hospital just in case, and watches him leave looking considerably more cheerful.

His departure gives the doctor five minutes to himself, and he tries to resist the temptation to just collapse onto his desk and sleep.

In an attempt to stay awake, he begins laboriously filling out the referral forms, but it doesn't take long. Blinking hard, John pulls his phone absently from his pocket instead.

Sherlock has texted him no less than five times in the space of ten minutes. In his tired state, that knowledge causes a twinge of annoyance in the pit of John's stomach, but he scrolls through the messages anyway, eyes unfocussed.

_Ugh, dull. SH._

_John? SH._

_JOHN. SH._

_I need to go Scotland Yard & get the crime scene reports on Margaret's death. SH._

_Could be dangerous. SH._

The last one elicits a huff of exasperation from the doctor. He grits his teeth, less inclined than normal to see the humour in it.

John texts back, lips pressed together, positive Sherlock has asked for nothing he couldn't do alone.

_Yeah? It'll be more dangerous if you don't leave me alone. JW._

It takes about ten seconds for a reply to ping back: clearly the detective had been waiting for a reply.

_I see no evidence to support that claim. SH_

_I will text Lestrade. And Mycroft. JW._

Funnily enough, Sherlock doesn't text him once for the rest of that day.


	11. No Sleep

**11.**

It's late again.

Very late.

No, John doesn't know precisely what time it is, but it's dark and cold, and he's on his sixth cup of 'improved' coffee. Despite the nausea, he's debating if a seventh would be beneficial.

The entire flat is an indecipherable jungle of dirty mugs, screwed up balls of paper and assorted – well, _things_ – string, drawing pins, post-its, blu-tack, and little petri dishes filled with jelly like substances.

In the very centre of this hurricane sits Sherlock, looking unfairly alert and bright and massaging the nicotine patches on his skin. In his free hand he holds a page of scrawled notes very close to his nose.

John sort of blearily stares at him.

"Sure you need me?" he asks, his voice slurring slightly from the lack of sleep. He shifts more upright in his chair, and rubs both eyes with the ends of his fingers.

"Yes," Sherlock assures him irritably. He scrutinises his paper ever closer, paying no more attention to his flatmate than he had the past half hour. A faint ping sounds from his pocket, but he doesn't move. "Pass me my phone."

In almost any other situation John would have flat out refused. He did not appreciate being treated as Sherlock's personal assistant, but he had the feeling the movement might relieve some of this crushing fatigue.

He navigates piles of books and Sherlock's microscope with not unreasonable skill and roughly pulls Sherlock's phone from his inside pocket, slapping the thing into the hand presented to him.

"Coffee?" he suggests weakly, unsure if his insides can take this kind of abuse. He's not built up Sherlock's resistance to the stuff yet.

The hand John had deposited the phone into is stationary, splayed flat like a carved marble plinth. Sherlock sniffs.

"Any messages?"

Too tired to muster any annoyance at the very annoying man in front of him, John snatches the thing back and quickly peruses Sherlock's inbox.

The contents are enough to make him momentarily forget his own tiredness. He stands there stupidly, stunned.

"Oh God," he mutters. He takes a breath and exhales slowly. "Sherlock – "

"What?" the detective snaps.

"Three deaths," John reports, his voice low and hushed. "Jane, Linda and Sandra…they're dead, Sherlock."

"Says who?" Sherlock asks. John misses the petulance, which is perhaps lucky for their relationship, although Sherlock still snatches his phone back with all the grace of a stroppy three year old.

"Mycroft."

They look at each other.

"Ah."

* * *

"Okay," Sherlock begins, pacing back and forth. By now, a faint pink light has begun to crawl above the horizon, and in the road below, the first early morning traffic rumbles past. "First victim was Margaret, owner of 'Sky Anemone Pets'. One week before her death, her Great Dane – pedigree, of course – was found dead. We already know C.O.D. – it's the same for all of the animals. Her husband has recently gone bankrupt, previously a billionaire."

"Yep."

"Second 'victim'" – John works to ignore how evident the quotation marks are in Sherlock's voice – "was Mary. Daughter Felicity died as all the animals did, but then Mary committed suicide. She is the anomaly in the pattern."

"Good."

"Third, fourth and fifth victims – Sandra, Linda and Jane – after the deaths of their respective racehorse, Persian cat and Shetland pony…all in that order."

"Christ," John remarks, feeling a giggle bubbling in his throat. "That's like reading the Christmas list of the poshest kid alive."

Sherlock frowns at him.

"If I'd said that, you'd have shouted at me."

John rethinks his last statement, and realises the detective has a point.

"Sorry," he says, sighing, and rubbing his face. "I'm tired and quite possibly delusional. We've missed something here, haven't we?"

"Obviously."

John flops back down into his armchair, squeezes both eyes tight shut, and buries his face in a cushion.

He removes it. The creeping light indicates something altogether more horrifying right now than strange sort-of serial killings.

Work. Right. Good.

With monumental effort, John heaves himself from the chair, and trudges towards the door. His brain is operating sufficiently to open it successfully, although it takes far more effort than he thinks it should.

Before tackling the stairs, he turns to address the dark haired atrocity that sat on the living room floor calmly tapping away at his laptop.

His voice is barely a tired mumble, but John's pretty sure the detective hears him.

"Sherlock: I _really _hate you."


	12. Ignoring Things

**Bit short, but I had a lot of work to do this evening. Sorry. Service resumed as normal tomorrow!**

**12.**

The joyful exclamations about funeral directors are, frankly, the last straw.

"Sherlock!" he bursts out, unable to keep quiet a moment longer. "_Please_."

Sherlock's head snaps round to look at him, eyes questioning.

"Just – be quiet."

"John, this is important, I've been trying to tell you – the funeral dir – "

"I don't care."

" – under a different name, maybe, it would be so _simple_ with – "

"Sherlock..."

" – which of course theoretically adds fraud to a growing – ah! – I wonder if there's – "

"SHERLOCK – "

" – oh, that is _nice_…but how to cover – "

"Sherlock!" John almost screams. He jumps off the couch and seizes the taller man by his upper arms, jerking him so hard he has to look at him. "Right now, I _do not want to know_. I explicitly told you that I was trying to sleep, and I _do not_ want to be bombarded with information that I cannot hope to understand in my current state."

There's a very pregnant pause, in which John curls back up and closes his eyes and Sherlock juts out his lower lip.

"Just...please."


	13. Foul Moods

**13.**

Sherlock is in a particularly foul mood for the entirety of the following day.

Currently, he appears to be on the phone to Lestrade, and judging by the quite spectacular language he's using, Sherlock is not happy.

The doctor catches snatches of Sherlock's angry snarls: things like "I don't care what Anderson thinks!" – "Why would that possibly…?" – "Well just get me all of them, then!" – "Surely even _your_ tiny little brain can manage…"

It culminates in the consulting detective shouting something down the receiver about incompetence and lack of cooperation, before he snatches the device from his ear and glares at it venomously. He jabs the 'end call' button so fiercely John wouldn't have been surprised if he'd bruised his finger.

The doctor smiles mildly at him, a half-hearted attempt to diffuse things.

He can't relate, not today, to Sherlock's foul mood: he is feeling significantly more cheerful, and significantly more awake. There's still a nagging tiredness that catches him when he's not occupied, but he's used to it. Living with Sherlock did that to a person.

Clutching a fresh mug of tea, John emerges from the kitchen, bringing his eyes up to peer at the side of Sherlock's scowling face.

"You do realise Lestrade doesn't have to put up with you at all?" he comments. The end of the sentence bubbles, as if he were about to begin laughing…but he doesn't, just sips his cup of tea pensively.

He watches his flatmate, feeling the waves of displeasure radiating off him. He's contemplating his phone as if it has committed him a deep personal offence.

"Lestrade doesn't 'put up with me'," Sherlock corrects haughtily. "He needs me."

Silence reigns; all that can be heard is the low humming from the two laptops on the kitchen table.

John sighs, swilling the tea around the mug and settling in his chair. Given Sherlock's expression, he decides argument is likely not the best way forward, and lets the matter lie.

As usual, Sherlock seems perfectly happy to continue without John's input anyway.

"I _need _those photos, John!" he exclaims, sounding as close to anguished as Sherlock Holmes is capable of being. He gets up from his perch on the arm of the sofa and begins to pace feverishly, stopping sharply as he starts to talk, and swinging dangerously to face John. "I need the Yard's photos of the crime scenes, and I need their forensic evidence too – but like the bunch of imbeciles they are, they don't seem to classify the deaths as linked, and apparently I am not allowed the evidence for five different cases at once!"

He takes a great breath and rests his hands on his hips, breathing through his nose. John watches him, beginning to almost understand the frustration.

"I suppose they don't really look linked," he reasons. He sips his tea, but his mind firmly back on their task now; he's not enjoying this small luxury quite as much as before.

"Yes they do!"

"Not really," John says. "One suicide, one…a house fire, was it? Stabbings, gunshot…"

He counts them off on his fingers.

"Two stabbings. Yeah," he runs a hand over his face, his flatmate's agitation no longer as amusing. "To be fair, Sherlock, it's only the deaths of the animals that look linked at the moment…and why would the Yard be investigating them?"

Sherlock growls.

"It's morons like Anderson that incite that kind of thinking," he states moodily, beginning to pace again. "You need to look at the whole picture, quite clearly."

John shrugs.

"Yeah, well…"

There's silence again for a moment. Sherlock paces angrily, running his hands through his hair and huffing out air through flared nostrils.

John toys with an idea in his head, wondering if it would just enrage Sherlock further.

Takes a final swig of tea, dumps the mug in the sink, and goes for it.

"Mycroft…?" he suggests, very tentatively.

Sherlock snorts, no effort made to hide his derision. It elicits a sigh from the doctor, who's beginning to feel slightly edgy.

He did have one other idea, provided it furthered the case…

"Burglary?" he asks. He tries to sound resigned, but he can't prevent the little flare of adrenaline that whirls in his blood at very idea, can't quite stop the creeping grin…

Sherlock whips round to stare at him unashamedly.

His eyes are wide and impressed. One corner of his mouth even begins to edge upwards in approval, and the pacing relents.

He opens his mouth to reply.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, John."

A loud voice sounds from behind them, announcing the presence of a man that neither of them had noticed.

DI Lestrade leans against their doorframe, watching the two men in front of him. He looks mildly amused, a lopsided half-grin crawling onto his face, but the amusement is tempered with underlying irritation; irritation at Sherlock's attitude towards important things like the law, and handling evidence and classified files with appropriate decorum.

He seems to steel himself, and throws a large file to the floor at their feet. The expression in his face is definitely resignation, John thinks.

"Best I can do," he tells them gruffly. He eyes the pair warily, fixing on Sherlock. "If I find your brother's men have been pilfering things again…"

Sherlock scoffs by way of answer, snatching the folder from the floor in one fluid movement, immediately beginning to peruse it.

He appears entirely immersed, but he does pause to throw out a careless:

"Oh, he won't."


	14. Mildly Patronising

**Thoughts appreciated as ever.**

**14.**

"_Precisely _as I thought," Sherlock crows, slamming both palms onto his desk, and grinning. He spares his dozing flatmate a glance, and flips Lestrade's folder shut with a deft little chop from the side of his hand.

Then, he then folds both hands under his chin, and glares pointedly at John Watson until he wakes up properly and comes over.

"What've you got?" John asks, shifting himself behind the detective so that he can peer comfortably over Sherlock's shoulder.

The laptop is open on the detective's website, but both men focus upon the folder that Sherlock flips open with pale fingers, pausing to indicate specific details and to occasionally elaborate on his own scrawled post-it notes as he goes through.

When he's done, Sherlock flicks his pale eyes up to meet John's. John looks at the enquiring expression and the raised eyebrows, and shifts his weight onto his right foot, trying to stare back with similar curiosity, and not just concern.

"Notice anything?" Sherlock asks. He leans back in his chair, and smirks, eyes still fixed on his flatmate.

John swallows, mentally flicking through everything he's just seen, trying to _observe_, and not just blindly stare.

Stains on plush carpets, blood spattered walls, a burned out room...and Mary, broken on the ground. That last one makes his breath hitch in his throat, but John tries very hard to ignore it, to think, to at least be of _some_ use to Sherlock.

He can see Anderson's handwriting – and how the hell he's learned to recognise that he's not quite sure – but it's of little use to him, just notes about distance and vague thoughts on the specific brand of weapon.

"Er…" he begins, scratching his chin. His fingernails graze against yesterday's stubble, and John frowns absently, making a mental note to shave. He glances at Sherlock, feeling slightly stupid, and tries to keep his mind on the task at hand. "Erm…there were no bodies, I suppose…"

"Good."

John looks at Sherlock again, frowning.

"So the police didn't move them?" he asks, relaxing at Sherlock's slight inclination of the head. "If the police didn't move the bodies, then…the murderer's got them. The murderer took the bodies."

Sherlock scrapes his chair round, so he's actually facing John, and leans forward.

"Perhaps. Or?"

John's brow furrows.

"Or…or he didn't. After all, Mary's body wasn't taken. So maybe he's trying not to leave a pattern? Trying to be unpredictable…"

He glances down at Sherlock, sighing. His brain seems to have met a dead end.

"Yep, that's it. Go on. How did I do?"

"Good, John. Really good."

John snorts and steps back, moving across the room to sit on the arm of the sofa. He still faces Sherlock, though, eager to see what the younger man's managed to glean from the folder.

"Right. 'Good' as in 'wrong', yeah?"

Sherlock smiles softly, eyes sparkling a bit.

"Not entirely."

John leans back so that he flops down into the sofa, and Sherlock's little smug grin in no longer in sight. Instead, he inspects the ceiling with his own wry smile, legs still hanging over the arm.

"Go on then."

He hears Sherlock get up, hears the change in his footsteps as he walks from the lounge into the kitchen. When he speaks, his voice has the slightest of echoes from the different environment.

"You were right about the bodies."

"Oh?" John says, interested. He sits up, looking in the direction of the tall silhouette in the kitchen.

"Yes – with the exception of Mary – and that was a genuine suicide, by the way – there were no bodies found at the scene."

"Which means?"

"Which means either the bodies were taken by the murderer as you suggested… or the reason there are no bodies is because the women are not dead."

John stares, gets up, and joins Sherlock in the kitchen.

"Okay," he says, leaning on one of the kitchen chairs, and meeting Sherlock's eyes evenly. "Why?"

"Because – " Sherlock splutters, running to snatch the folder from his desk and shoving it under John's nose. "Look at the way the blood is spattered on the wall, how it's smeared on the carpet…look at the teeth, in the burned out room."

He flips over the page, jabbing at the photos accordingly.

"Isn't it obvious?"

The comment draws a blank look from the doctor, and Sherlock closes his eyes in pure exasperation.

"If our flat was on fire, where would you go?"

"Out."

Sherlock glares, apparently not appreciative of the sarcasm.

"You'd go out _the front door_. If the door was blocked, you'd try and escape through a window: you would not, under any circumstances, stand in the middle of the room and do _nothing_. Which leaves us with the question, John, of _why _the only remains left of Linda Whittingstall were found in the very centre of the burning room."

John nods slowly, flipping back a few pages to look at the blood spattered on the wall of Jane's cottage.

"What about this one?"

"Too little blood. The pattern achieved _is_ accurate, but the volume is simply not sufficient. If your head's been blown off you're going to bleed – you're a military man, you've seen cases similar to Jane's – it also seems strangely convenient that it looks like approximately a pint…"

"Not so much of the 'approximately'?" John asks.

"Quite. Same with the stabbings. Deduction: the women aren't dead, this isn't murder, and we've got ourselves an altogether more interesting case."

Sherlock smiles widely, and glances at his watch.

"Come on, doctor. We've got a WI meeting to go to!"


	15. Feigned Tears

**Gone midnight, oops. Still, hope you enjoy.**

**15.**

"_Penny_," Sherlock simpers, enveloping a red-headed woman in his arms as soon as they enter the room. "How are you?"

Yes, John muses, 'simpers' was definitely the correct adjective. 'Sickening' would also be an appropriate one. 'False' 'camp' and 'making John Watson want to tear his own ears off' wouldn't be too far off the mark either.

Dear God.

The room is chilly, and John shivers slightly as he makes his way to a seat. As usual, two huge tables are pushed together in the centre of the room, five mismatched chairs lined along each side of it. The strip lighting flickers as rain pours outside, but the hall quickly fills up with the buzz of friendly chatter; coats are flung over the backs of chairs and the dull cream of the walls and floor seem to brighten considerably with the addition of multi-coloured raincoats and smiles.

John catches snatches of what's being said: 'rang her just this morning' – 'no, no, she's _fine_' – 'Kingy's doing just fine, thank you!' – but he largely he keeps his head down except to offer a smile or a polite word, because John Watson does not feel comfortable here anymore.

He's …at a loss at what to do or how to feel. He hasn't quite got Sherlock's aloof detachment – and he doesn't know whether to feel guilty that he's not telling the amassed women anything when they're supposedly their friends now – or to feel suspicious and wonder if all these ladies are as innocent as they claim. Are the 8 women left about to fake their own deaths through the same kind of bizarre and elaborate scheme as the rest? Are they all in fact horrible murderous femme fatales, who go around seducing rich businessmen and…actually, scratch that, they've murdered no one except, apparently, themselves.

Does Moriarty in fact have thirteen wives, whose sole mission is to confuse the hell out of Sherlock and John?

John chuckles under his breath and tries to be interested in the meeting. He does try. It's just – well – he's not very interested in potted plants, try as he might. The gnawing suspicion and wild theories whirling around his head aren't helping either and he longs to be chasing criminals down alleyways and running for his life again.

He props his face up with both hands, elbows leant on the table.

"John!"

Stung vocals cut through the doctor's thoughts, and he looks up to see Sherlock beside him with eyes bright with hurt. John raises both eyebrows at him, but the detective's expression does not change.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates, and John sneaks a look under the table.

_If we seem vulnerable, they'll be more open and less suspicious. SH._

John sighs. Sherlock is glaring at him with the kind of wounded righteousness usually reserved for prophets.

"Were you even listening?" Sherlock wails, his voice rather higher than usual.

It takes a lot of restraint on the soldier's part to not snort at the frankly girlish outcry, but John manages with only the tiniest of smirks.

He thinks he almost catches a dirty look flashing from Sherlock's tear filled eyes, but he blinks, and then wonders if he imagined it.

"Yes. Yeah, course I was."

He racks his brains desperately, trying to remember the snatches of conversation that had penetrated his thoughts.

"Sandra…" he tries, fighting to keep the grimace off his face as he attempts to recall what he'd heard. Damn. He remembers an exaggerated gasp from the man beside him, remembers false outpourings, remembers… "You talked to her _this morning_…"

He stares at Penny, wondering.

"No!" Sherlock cries, tears spilling down his face and splashing onto the table. He sniffs, and squeezes the shoulders of the woman beside him – Penny herself – and all but glares at John.

John tries valiantly not to grin, and takes that as a resounding 'yes'.

"Sandra died _yesterday_!" the detective continues. "Oh God, I'm sorry…"

He dissolves into sobs. After a moment, John remembers that Sherlock is unfortunately his problem, and reaches out to hug him awkwardly.

He doesn't expect Sherlock to cling so tightly and to all but howl into his shoulder.

It seems to have the desired effect, however, because the women all coo sympathetically, and Penny even reaches out and rubs his back gently.

"He's taking it very badly," John states, looking down at the bawling Sherlock, and frowning.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbles. He nestles closer into John's neck: the doctor can feel his tears dribbling down the skin and soaking into the collar of his jumper. "It's pathetic, I'm so sorry, it must be so much worse for…"

He loses his composure altogether and starts weeping earnestly, wrapping his arms tighter around the smaller man.

Penny smiles empathetically in John's direction, her eyes on Sherlock, whose whole body shakes with 'grief'.

"We're all taking it badly – it's fine."

Which is when John notices something: they really aren't. Every single regular member is present. Every single familiar face that he's grown to recognise…but it's only the self-confessed sociopath who's bawling into John's hair and ruining his jumper. The consulting detective must have catalogued it instantly, but now that he's noticed it, it's obvious to John too.

Sherlock is not the person he'd expected to be comforting when he'd left Baker Street that evening.

"Yeah," John says suddenly. "About that…how long's this group been together?"

Sherlock's still draped across him, and John feels him tense in warning. He ignores this, an idea taking hold, and watches the women's reactions.

There are exchanged glances, swallows, and regretful sighs. It's an imitation of grief, performed by people who act as if they've only ever read a description and not experienced it.

It's lovely elderly little Doris that pipes up and answers the ex-army doctor – white hair, shrunk to barely taller than four foot high, but kind and with a surprisingly dirty sense of humour.

John particularly likes her and it saddens him to see her as part of this charade.

"I've been here for years," she says. "But most of the current ladies…about 8 years, darling."

There's a general murmur of assent that ripples round the table.

"Right," John says. Sherlock's at the morose sniffling stage by now, although he's still uncomfortably clingy. The sudden digging of nails in the back of his neck John takes as an indication to _just shut up_: an indication he ignores, and continues. "So – uh – are any of you involved in, you know, organising the funeral?"

He looks around at the faces, hoping that he'd sounded casual enough. Against his chest he feels Sherlock sigh, and wonders again: is this proximity really necessary? He squirms, trying to indicate that he'd appreciate it if Sherlock moved.

_More likely to talk to someone who looks comforting. Stop moving. SH._

"It's just – you seem close – I wondered…me and Sherlock, we'd like to…come."

Glances are exchanged, and Doris answers again. As she opens her mouth, Sherlock finally sits up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"Yes – we're helping with all of them. It wouldn't seem right otherwise – obviously, their husbands are doing most of it, but we're helping out where we can…"

Her quavering little voice trails off, and John's left with the notion that there wasn't even as much sincerity in Doris' voice as there was in Sherlock's tears.

"Really?" John says, trying to keep to his 'doctor' voice, and not his more probing investigative one. "If it's not too personal…which funeral director…?"

That sounds a bit…odd…and he quickly amends it.

"I mean, you hear on the news about people getting mistreated – I wouldn't want that to happen here…"

"J.K. Funeral Services," Doris says, smiling gently. "I know the director…very local, don't you worry."

John smiles, catching Sherlock's eye. There's definitely something resembling _admiration_ in those pale irises, and he almost smiles at John.

That is, before he dissolves back into tears.

_Christ_.


	16. Unwanted Silence

**16.**

John watches Sherlock with an icy expression on his face.

In fact, the doctor's usual mild demeanour is currently not evident at all. He stands in the doorway separating the kitchen and the lounge, hands on hips, eyes shooting daggers at a detective who's paying him absolutely no heed at all. The only sign that betrays John's fondness for the infuriating man is the relaxation around his lips and forehead that signify his long held acceptance of Sherlock's eccentricities… which is marred only momentarily with the current irritation.

The filthy stare isn't altogether warranted, but John puts up with a lot and he's just endured close to an hour of sobbing detective curled around his neck without so much as a muttered apology or any verbal acknowledgement of the fact that it happened at all.

As usual, Sherlock seems to have discarded it and moved on – not something John has a problem with; he's trying to do the same – but Sherlock's done so without so much as a vague nod suggesting that he might understand that John would, in future, appreciate prior warning to such violent invasion of his personal space, especially in public.

No, he'd like to amend that thought actually. Especially anywhere.

And so: John is glaring, Sherlock is typing, and 221B Baker Street is quiet. Only the sounds of an argument on the street below permeate their peace, muffled by the glass of the window and the drawn curtains anyway.

Eventually, the doctor has to accept that Sherlock's probably not going to apologise. The knowledge draws a sigh from his lungs despite the fact it's an extremely regular admittance that he has to make to himself. Dark blue eyes linger on Sherlock's even darker countenance for a second longer, maybe in the vain hope of a sudden change of personality but then John does give up altogether with a purse of his lips, and moves. He trudges out of the kitchen, snatches the remote from the back of the sofa, and moves to settle in his armchair.

The clingy sobbing is diligently stored somewhere in the furthest reaches of the shorter man's mind: between the winking and the storing of human remains in the fridge, and then John does the normal human equivalent of Sherlock's deleting: lets the matter lie, and thinks about something else.

He stares listlessly at the television screen for a few minutes for want of something to do. The drone of the newsreader goes right through him; he hears the words but doesn't really listen. It's just a low background mantra, vaguely distracting, occasionally punctuated by shouts or gunshots in the reports.

John runs one hand through his hair and sighs again, muting it. He shifts himself slightly so that he can see Sherlock.

"Anything new?" he asks, stifling a yawn. Neither of them has bothered to turn the lights on, he realises, and Sherlock's face glows bright white at him through the gloom.

In contrast, his inky black curls melt into the darkness of the room. A few locks dip into the white of his face, giving him an almost ethereal quality, as if he could disappear into nothing at any moment.

The current furrowing of his eyebrows is perhaps the only thing that makes him look remotely human… that, and the curling of his lip as he contemplates his computer.

"Doris gave us the wrong funeral services."

John shifts properly around in his seat then, frowning at his flatmate. Sherlock's face is suddenly entirely unreadable again, mouth shut in a straight line, eyes almost blank. John can hear him breathing as his eyes scan the web page.

"What?"

Sherlock looks up.

"When you asked her who was doing the funerals for the supposed 'victims', she gave you the wrong company."

Sherlock throws the sentence out carelessly, but his eyes move upwards to find John's own, and he grins, tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip as he snaps the laptop shut.

He gets up, and John mirrors him, his pulse quickening at the look in Sherlock's face, the way his eyes shine with excitement through the darkness.

"Genuine mistake?" John clarifies, getting to his feet. Sherlock wheels to face him.

"Genuine mistake."

"But?"

Sherlock's smile widens; he deposits the laptop on the sofa and disappears briefly. When he returns, he's winding his scarf around his neck and shrugging on his long coat.

"Have you ever tried to hide something so consciously that eventually you ended up blurting it out to someone?"

"Yes," John replies grimly.

He kneads his forehead and, if he is thinking of that unfortunate teenage incident involving the house party, far too much alcohol and his parents' bedroom – well, he liked to think it showed a streak of honesty he'd not been aware he possessed – in fact, given the consequences, that instant hadn't been the moment to discover it. He winces at the memory, and looks up.

Sherlock's watching him in the flickering half-light of the telly, head cocked to one side. He looks mildly amused.

Something occurs to John halfway up the stairs to his room, causing him to call back to his flatmate as he ransacks his wardrobe to retrieve his jacket.

"_You_ know how that feels?"

"Of course not," Sherlock retorts, and he greets a now appropriately dressed John as he bounds back down the stairs by propelling him down further. "It is merely something I have observed."

* * *

John gets the gist of what Sherlock's been researching in the cab – something about a suspiciously new funeral services popping up, that organises ludicrously lavish funerals for the pets of those that can afford it.

He may have misunderstood something amongst all the snide remarks, but John thinks the thing that has piqued the detective's interest is the identity of whoever owns the business…and, accordingly, they're off to do some more sodding _burglary_.

Funnily, the assurance that no one will be in doesn't calm John's jangling nerves and conscience – and he curses the adrenaline that courses through his blood and makes him breathless.

Not wanting to meet the gaze of what is now likely to be the world's smuggest detective; John peers out the window, watching the city crawl past. People are beginning to stumble out of the pubs; he watches a particularly unsteady group of young boys stumble past, yelling raucously and crudely, before he catches Sherlock's reflection in the window.

His face is tense and still, brain working at a hundred miles an hour. He hasn't catalogued John's increased adrenaline levels or his not-so-nonchalant gaze out of the window – he's absorbed in his own thoughts, completely.

"JK Funeral Services," he murmurs out loud. John watches him carefully, but says nothing. "I need to look at their accounts."

He lapses back into thoughtful silence. Two fingers move upwards to rest thoughtfully on his bottom lip.

John watches him a few moments longer, voicing a few more questions too.

He gets nothing more out of the detective however, just distracted 'mmm's, and the occasional quiet exclamation that's not aimed at him…just an outward show of victory.

John Watson crosses him arms, forced to wait until Sherlock sees fit to divulge his findings.


	17. Things That Shouldn't Be Funny

**I love Mycroft. **

**Warning: there's the **_**tiniest**_** reference to series 2. **

**17.**

When Sherlock quietly picks the lock the street is still, the grumble of the cab fading as it rounds the corner and melts into the dark.

John hovers beside him, watchful, squinting through the night for signs of prying eyes.

Considering this business caters for such a wealthy clientele, John is surprised by the shabby exterior of the building. True: it's recently been repainted a deep, rich blue and that then embellished with gold lettering…but it's small, sandwiched between a kebab shop and a newsagents in one of the cheapest parts of the city. The white lilies in their elegant vases that peek through the window look very out of place and John's surprised the place hasn't been broken into yet – all the furniture inside looks like it should be worth more than most of the flats in the tower blocks that loom behind it.

Stamping his feet to keep warm, John watches as Sherlock finally manages to force his way in. He pushes forward, and the door squeals in protest, a tiny bell jingling above their heads. In the distance, there's a fight breaking out, and drunken swearing.

Lovely part of town.

The two men creep inside, easing the screaming door back into place and blinking through the gloom as their eyes adjust.

"How sure are you there's no CCTV?" John asks, glancing around in search of hidden cameras. He feels Sherlock move beside him, dropping to his haunches to examine the carpet.

"They've not had time to match the furniture or do more than apply a lick of paint…rest assured they will not have installed any cameras."

Sherlock squints at the carpet, running gloved fingers over it, and frowning. He looks up to catch John's eye.

"Besides, I highly doubt they want recorded evidence of the establishment they're running here."

The detective straightens up, brushing down his coat, and smiles… striding confidently across the room and expertly avoiding any of the – yes, mismatched – furniture as he went. John follows, forgetting the fact that they were in fact breaking and entering _again_ and falling easily into the wonderfully familiar process of joking and crime solving with his mad flatmate.

"That good, eh?"

John perches on the edge of the most ornate mahogany table he's even seen in his life, and watches Sherlock ransack the drawers underneath the reception desk.

The detective doesn't answer him; he's too busy rifling through papers, muttering under his breath distractedly. He slaps a sizeable handful of documents onto yet more wood you could see your own face in and yanks a drawer entirely from its hole. He then proceeds to delve a hand straight to the bottom of it and empty it of its contents.

John watches him with a half-amused smile on his face, thinking that if Sherlock were anyone else, showing that kind of careless abandon would be what got them caught…but he's sure Sherlock's going to arrange everything back so precisely that even his own brother would have difficulty noticing the difference.

The doctor strokes a thumb over the tiny carvings of dragons that frolic across the back of a chair, and then grins very suddenly. Not one piece of this furniture would look out of place in Buckingham Palace…and he'd know.

"Are you sure Mycroft doesn't live here?" he asks, waving vaguely at all the lavish furnishings. His grin widens.

That comment does draw a reaction from Sherlock, a chuckle that resonates deep in his throat. John sees the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly as he smirks.

"_Mycroft_?" Sherlock repeats, and although the tone is incredulous, there's a wobble in the detective's voice betraying an imminent onset of the giggles. "Please – my brother struggles to abide mismatching clothes to skin tone, much less the furniture in his own house."

John starts laughing.

"True – I kind of imagine he just dissolves into dark matter when he's finished spying on us for the day."

Sherlock snorts, shuffling paperwork.

"It concerns me how much you're imagining my brother at all, John."

That sends them both into giggles distinctly inappropriate for two men that are diligently stealing from a funeral services'.

"Shut up, we're supposed to be being quiet!"

"Well it's certainly not me fantasising about Mycroft being some kind of overweight wraith."

John tries hard not to laugh at that, he does. It's just; he seems to have forgotten how to look cross.

"I'm not – "

"Anyway, _dissolving_ would be far too haphazard for him to cope with. I expect he arranges his furniture with a set square."


	18. Careless Words

**Here comes the festive stuff…!**

**18.**

The sun peers over the horizon, seeping between buildings and colouring the sleeping city a deep orange.

Inside 221b however, there are two men still very much awake. The smaller of the these two moves around the kitchen, shifting aside a tray of eardrums to reach the milk, and distractedly poking two mugs across the counter as he waits for the bubbling kettle. The taller of them lies flat in the middle of the living room floor, sleeves rolled up and fingers pressed into his left forearm, which he holds elevated above his head. Upon closer inspection, two flesh coloured patches are visible on the exposed skin.

The kettle clicks and John Watson stops his distant prodding of the mugs in favour of pouring boiling water onto teabags. He can hear Sherlock drawing in one long breath in the next room as he reasons with himself, and the doctor yawns, vaguely registering the rise of the sun by the faint glow coming in through the curtains.

God, it was early. Or late, depending on how you looked at it.

John doesn't really remember removing the teabags or stirring in the milk – after all, the process had been an easy habit since his teens and he was tired – just remembers scooping up the two cups and slouching back through to the lounge, fighting another yawn.

Sherlock's sitting up when John appears in the doorway, rocking back and forth with his knees drawn up to his chest. He looks a little bit manic, although he stops long enough to grab the proffered cup and gulp feverishly. John watches him set it by his feet, prop his elbows on his knees and press the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully.

There's a pause, and John joins his friend on the floor, pulling a pile of the stolen documents towards him to look at them.

"The wives are extracting money from their husbands by emptying their bank account through this company, yes?" John asks, pushing the accounts aside.

"Mmm."

"Because that way – provided they use a false identity – it can't be traced back to them?"

Sherlock chuckles, sipping his tea.

"Yes. That worked out nicely for them."

John looks up and grins at him. His eyes drop back to the scattered paperwork though, and something catches his eye.

"But look – 'Mr Hall' – that's Margaret's husband, the guy who came to see us…it says here they've debited his account £80,000,000…and he was a billionaire."

John frowns, shuffling through the mess on the floor in case he'd missed something.

"He said he went bankrupt."

The two exchange a glance.

"Was he lying?" John wonders out loud, squinting at the tiny black numbers printed on the bottom of the page.

Sherlock sniffs, and leans over to grab the paper out of his hand.

"My... you _are_ better than the skull," he comments, looking up from the page to grin wickedly at John's expression, then adding: "by the way – two more extortionately pricey pet funerals on the way – Penny and Sarah's charges, this time."

He waves another document under John's nose that they'd stolen earlier.

John sighs, stretching out his legs in front of him, and watches the detective work.

"He wasn't lying…" Sherlock mutters. He takes a swallow of tea, eyes unfocussed. "There's something else, then…another layer. They _have_ done this properly."

"And when they've got everything, they fake their own death," John finishes for him. A hollow laugh escapes his mouth. "It seems sad. That people are like that. Just for money."

Sherlock snorts.

"On second thoughts, I think I prefer my skull."

"Oh, come on," the doctor persists. "Even you can't – "

"I'm not defending them," Sherlock interjects smoothly. He starts tapping away at the screen of his phone, searching for something or other. "I value neither sentiment _nor_ money."

His face stays straight and he doesn't look up… and John can't help but feel a little stung. He tries to ignore it, grabbing a random pile of evidence and notes and trying to sort it into some kind of order instead.

After about five minutes of what could only be described as stony silence, John thinks he feels Sherlock's gaze on his face.

He doesn't look up.

There's a tiny sigh beside him, followed by the heaving of a body from the floor. John listens to Sherlock's bare feet on the carpet…padding through to the kitchen and back again. Out of the very corner of his eye, John sees a laptop set by Sherlock's knee, and then the gentle tap of keys.

John continues in his task without acknowledging him, casting aside a post-it that read: _John, coffee?_ The paper is crumpled, and John has a vague recollection of Sherlock having thrown it at his head a few weeks back by way of requesting a drink.

He almost smiles, but the faint sting caused by the earlier comment dampens it, and the expression quickly slides from his face. It's replaced by a weight that settles somewhere in the bottom of his stomach.

Really, it was the carelessness of the comment that'd hurt, rather than the words themselves…accompanied by a wicked grin he'd have thought nothing of it.

John's just rooting around on the floor to find the map of Surrey they'd printed out two days ago when a noise catches his attention. His head snaps round to look at Sherlock.

The first few familiar bars of a song hum cheerily from the detective's laptop. The man himself is apparently engrossed in his phone, although the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

John turns back to his task too, finding himself suddenly completely unable to keep a straight face. His features break into a huge grin and he tries hard not to look back at Sherlock and to concentrate on the page of his scrawled notes instead.

"How could you _possibly_ know this is my favourite Christmas song?" John asks quietly, grin widening. He slots the notes into the middle of his newly constructed pile, and steals a glance at his flatmate.

"Obvious."

Sherlock continues scrolling through something on his phone, still apparently absorbed.

"What happened to: 'Christmas is a waste of time, John'?"

The detective says nothing, just hums quietly... and John thinks, as Jona Lewie rings out through the flat: for a supposedly sociopathic detective who didn't 'value sentiment'… well, he was really quite sweet.


	19. Taking Lestrade For Granted

**19.**

Since the 'sentiment' comment, Sherlock seems to have been making something of an effort to be nice to John.

True: it hadn't yet been twenty four hours and it could be a coincidence and or an experiment, but John was appreciating it nonetheless.

'Nice' in Sherlock terms meant waiting for John to offer him tea instead of demanding it, shifting a few of his grizzlier experiments from the fridge and occasionally asking his opinion on certain matters – like, for instance, regarding whether or not John was going to go into work that morning.

Pre-Sherlock, John doubted any of those things would have been in his 'nice' category, but the man appeared to have significantly altered what was and wasn't included in there…not that John really minded.

He was very grateful that the decomposing eyeballs had been removed from next to the butter without the usual disagreement and uncooperativeness.

Unfortunately for Lestrade, Sherlock's sudden bout of kindness did not appear to extend to put-upon Detective Inspectors.

Up until now, they seemed to have largely avoided contact with the police – while they had been running around filing paperwork about separate, unlinked murders; John and Sherlock seemed to have been running in the opposite direction actively looking for links and on occasion, attending cake sales.

That trend apparently stopped today. John couldn't help but think that it might have been better for Greg's fraying nerves if it had continued – given that he was currently engaged in a ferocious disagreement with Sherlock, who seemed to be unusually snappy.

John did not envy him.

"But it's clearly not a serial killer!" Sherlock yells, hands balled and gesticulating at about head level – John worries for the man opposite him, he really does. "There's clear, obvious evidence – just because _Anderson _needs it spelled out in – "

John switches off, leaving Sherlock to his complaints and glancing around at their surroundings. He'd not got much of a chance to sightsee when Sherlock had hauled him from the cab and straight through the front door.

The house is definitely a reflection of the wealth of the woman whose blood stains the bottom of the bath – the house is huge and white with no less than four floors and a sizeable gravel drive, despite still being within the city. It's magnificent, and the irony of Penny's name hasn't been lost even on Sherlock – he observed it in the cab on the way there – followed by a list of other, more gruesome observations about patterns of blood and water and how much you'd lose if you really did decide to cut your own –

John's jolted out of his reverie by Greg's voice; very loud and very irritated.

"Yes, alright!" Lestrade shouts. Colour rises in his face as he finally loses his temper. John's actually pretty impressed he managed to contain himself for so long, given who he was dealing with. "It might be obvious to you, but until you give me some evidence – and I mean _solid_ evidence, not your 'the only possible chain of events' crap – I can't turn the entire investigation on its head, _just because Sherlock said so_."

"But – "

Lestrade sighs, cutting back across the detective.

"Look Sherlock, I – God help me – _I_ believe you." He glares at the taller man, clearly silently wishing that he didn't, or perhaps that he'd never stumbled across him in the first place. "If you've got evidence, and you give it to me, then we can work together."

He stares evenly at Sherlock, hands on hips.

Then it's the younger man's turn to glare. Sherlock turns away, lips pressed together.

"We're working on it."

Two silver eyebrows shoot into the air, followed by a grin.

Lestrade watches the detective, that grin getting steadily wider as Sherlock scowls at a point somewhere above his head.

"I'm sorry?" he asks, innocently shifting his weight.

Sherlock scowls; Lestrade's expression starts to verge on gleeful.

"I said: we're working it!"

A pause.

"So that's a no."

"Well, there are some things!" Sherlock snaps, still glowering. He removes his gloves and fixes the man with a stony stare. "Always about a pint of blood at the scene and no body, that's convenient – "

"Yeah, and precise."

" – not to mention JK Funeral Services that's diligently relieving the partner of the 'deceased' of a good portion of their money shortly before their supposed 'death'."

Lestrade frowns, then folds his arms. In the background his officers are starting to get restless, muttering darkly amongst themselves. John sees Sally Donovan openly jerk her head towards Sherlock before leaning in towards her colleagues to make some scathing remark.

"Why would you go to a funeral services _before_ your partner had died?"

Lestrade looks confused.

Sherlock looks almost furious.

He looks from Lestrade to John and back again, with an expression of incredulity etched into every line of his face. When the answer doesn't dawn on the Inspector's face, he throws both hands into the air in exasperation and possibly, disgust.

"Good grief," he sneers, already turning from the scene in sheer contempt. "The pets, Lestrade! Isn't it obvious?"

And, with that, he steers John from the crime scene, muttering irritably the entire way.


	20. Childishness

**Wow, huge thanks to all readers/reviewers/followers/favouriters…there are getting to be quite a few of you! *waves* **

**Special thank you to guest reviewers, to whom I can't respond. I'm very grateful!**

**20.**

John can't say he enjoys Mycroft's little visits.

The man is polite at best and usually exudes an air of unpleasantness and quiet threat even then. John cannot claim to like him.

However, he _can_ say that he enjoys the ridiculous unspoken contest between Sherlock and his brother _even less_.

The longer the two are in contact with one another, the more spectacular their deductions and observations become... and the greater the hostility becomes, too. The older of the two inevitably outwits his younger sibling in the end – and gloating, leaves John to deal with a sulky consulting detective.

It drives him mad.

He's usually reduced to trying to dissipate the tension between the pair with a cup of tea and conversation through gritted teeth… although once he had clouted the pair of them round the head – the surprise on Mycroft's face had had Sherlock in tears of laughter and the doctor remains proud of that intervention to this day. They had even stopped arguing.

He'd almost been surprised one of Mycroft's people hadn't popped up and tried to assassinate him though.

The most irritating thing about their stupid sibling feud, however, is that Sherlock always starts it. John doesn't really like his brother much, but he's perfectly civil when he visits, albeit in a manner that's almost clinical in its coldness.

By contrast, Sherlock always has to pick Mycroft up on something, and it _is_ childish, and John would, sometimes, dearly love to punch him.

John glances through to the lounge from his vigil in the kitchen, where the Holmes sit in stony silence. Sherlock is very pointedly reading a book and paying his brother no heed whatsoever. Mycroft seems to be mildly interested by his umbrella's handle, occasionally casually flicking his eyes up to look at Sherlock. He gives a tiny sigh, and John senses impending conflict.

The noise causes the detective's shoulders to visibly stiffen, although he doesn't stop reading.

John blinks, and realises that his chosen reading material is _The Oxford Dictionary_.

Christ.

He doesn't think he's ever met a grown man quite as ridiculous as Sherlock Holmes.

Trying hard not to echo Mycroft's sigh, John makes to move forward and offer tea, mainly because he's not quite sure he can handle much more silent hostility.

"Mycroft does not need tea, John," Sherlock announces to the room, not looking up from his book. "He's only here to interfere in the case and as I've already told him, we're _really_ not interested."

The detective's tone is adamant, and John does sigh this time.

"Tea, Mycroft?" he offers.

There's an angry snarl from the other end of the room, and the slam of dictionary on wood.

"_No_," Sherlock repeats, glaring at John: something John thinks is grossly unfair. The detective turns to look at his brother for the first time since he'd arrived, voice loftily disinterested. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say, Mycroft."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitch into a half smile; a threat.

Sherlock scowls, his hand hovering back over his dictionary. He raises both eyebrows at his brother, challenging him silently.

The challenge is rebuked with an exhalation through the nose from Mycroft, who shifts in his chair, narrowing his eyes in the closest thing to a glare John imagines he's capable of.

Sherlock curls his lip in a silent sneer.

They continue in this manner for about a minute, until John's all but ready to slam his head against the nearest brick wall.

It's Mycroft who speaks out loud - eventually - sparing him the trouble.

"I think I may be able to help with your next – 'layer', did you put it – of your – "

"No."

" – of this case you're currently undertaking." Mycroft raises his voice slightly, his tone taking on a harder edge. "Do stop being so inexplicably childish, Sherlock."

"I don't want your help," Sherlock tells him, enunciating each syllable very carefully. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something between a snort and scathing tut. He fixes his brother with a hard stare. "Why do you care – I'm surprised you managed the 'legwork' to discover anything of use, anyway."

He settles deeper into the upholstery, eyes glazed over.

"Really, Sherlock – there's none _required_."

"Oh?"

One dark eyebrow lifts questioningly over ice coloured eyes.

There's a pause: in which the two brothers contemplate each other.

"Very well – I'll leave you two to work it out, then."

The elder of the two lifts himself from his seat. John thought he saw the flash of a smile, but Mycroft's face is entirely blank, slightly disinterested, as if his mind has already moved onto something else. Knowing Sherlock, John suspects it has.

With no further comment, he sweeps from the flat, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of what John suspects to be _very_ expensive cologne… and a predictably sulky Sherlock.

John turns on him, feeling justifiably annoyed.

"Well done," he snaps, removing himself from Sherlock's presence and flipping open his laptop. "Charming. You're actually refusing evidence to help resolve cases now."

* * *

"Apparently," Lestrade says, striding down the corridor ahead of Sherlock and John, flipping through some report or other, "apparently there's some funeral services ripping people off – but the interesting thing is, the people who run it don't exist. We reckon it's connected with these murders in some way…"

Sherlock moves to walk beside him, eyes rolling upwards as he cuts the DI off.

"Yes, I know. Why are you repeating what I told you yesterday?"

Lestrade glances at him, and even from behind them, John can see the little smirk on his face.

"Yeah, it's not your pet funerals this time. _This_ is a different company, who just happen to have arranged the funerals of all the victims for the case."

"They're not victims!" Sherlock interjects heatedly, snatching the report from Lestrade's grip, and scrutinising it. "Where did you get this?"

They round the corner, Lestrade's office coming into view. From the look on Sherlock's face, John can't help but think that's probably good. He's beginning to look more than capable of murder himself.

Lestrade doesn't answer – probably because a question like that doesn't deserve any kind of answer at all – and the ferocity of Sherlock's glare redoubles.

"You've been talking to Mycroft."

It's not a question, it's a statement.

Also, the scowl on Sherlock's face is so pronounced now; John expects it could be seen several miles away.

Lestrade fumbles with the lock on his door.

"Yeah, who I or any other member of the police speaks to really isn't your business." The DI manages to get the door open and waves them inside. Sherlock doesn't move, and Lestrade sighs. "Nor is who your brother speaks to… before you give me that."

Tired eyes meet John's, pleading for some way to deal with the man in front of them. John just shrugs, equally as exasperated as Greg.

"Does it even matter?" Lestrade asks when Sherlock _still_ says nothing, a little desperately. His voice is more gravelly than usual, John suspects due to tiredness.

He tries to catch Sherlock's eye to get him to be a bit gentler on poor Lestrade, but Sherlock, as ever, is far too interested in causing trouble to notice.

"My brother _is_ the Government, Lestrade!" Sherlock snarls, spitting out the word 'brother' particularly vehemently, his eyes flashing dangerously. "He's the most powerful man in Britain, he's manipulative and it's his job to – _toy_ – with people like you, so that he can get what he wants."

Lestrade almost swallows his own tongue at that, and starts choking violently.

"I'm sorry?" he splutters, turning beetroot.

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, supremely unconcerned by the coughing fit he's just caused.

"It's his job: to manipulate, plant false evidence, leads, whatever – to toy with the law enforcers. You can't trust him."

His voice is hard and adamant, matching his expression and his folded arms. He gives a sigh… and suddenly his whole face shifts, and he sniffs and looks around as if thoroughly bored by it all.

"Come on John," he commands, beckoning and turning away.

He sweeps from the room with his nose in the air, coat swirling dramatically around his ankles.

For once, John doesn't follow: he's had more than enough of sulky, petulant Sherlock for one day.

Instead, he turns back to Greg, who's still feebly choking, and fetches him a glass of water.


	21. Resentment

**No one panic, you're getting a more satisfactory resolution than this. Happy 'end-of-the-world'!**

**21.**

"Sherlock."

John watches the detective from across the room, his arms folded across his chest. Sherlock is hunched over his laptop, the light from the screen making his face glow blue. His eyebrows are knitted together in what John suspects to be feigned concentration.

"Sherlock, could you please stop sulking just because Mycroft saved us a lot of time?"

There's a faint huff from the man, who does deign to look up – albeit very slowly – and who then fixes his flatmate with an accusatory stare.

"He did no such thing."

"Yes, he did."

With no warning, Sherlock suddenly slams both palms onto his desk, and glares.

"Correction: he discovered one tiny detail which, at most, would have taken me another hour to work out myself. What he did was _show off_ and prove himself to be an insufferable idiot."

Sherlock spits out that last word with incredible venom, quirks both eyebrows at John, and returns to his laptop.

"Yeah, think I know someone like that," John mutters under his breath. When Sherlock shoots him a particularly nasty glare by way of response, he unfolds his arms and sighs. "Look: I _know _you're brilliant. Just because Mycroft solved one – look, the _sulking_ detracts from your image more than anything your brother can do."

Sherlock doesn't look up, but John notices his eyes have stopped moving, and gathers that he has the detective's attention.

He's about to say something else, but Sherlock beats him to it.

"Perhaps." He pauses. "I still solved most of it, though."

"Sherlock…"

"Anyway," the detective continues, cutting across John and violently snapping his laptop shut. "I didn't notice you worrying about deadlines when you were cuddling _Lestrade_ all afternoon."

"I wasn – hey!" John steps towards his flatmate, a grin blossoming on his face. "Since when has the word 'cuddling' been in your vocabulary?"

Sherlock tries to scowl, but his bottom lip wobbles dangerously, betraying him. John sniggers.

"The man who deleted the entire solar system…knows the word 'cuddling'?"

Sherlock valiantly attempts to look cross at John, but he fails spectacularly…and it isn't long before 221B Baker Street is filled with the kind of giggling that is usually reserved for crime scenes.


	22. Arrogance

**22.**

It's possibly the most bizarre collection of people ever to be seen in the same room with one another – and second only to adding James Moriarty to the mix – probably also the most likely to take over the world if they put their minds to it.

As usual, Sherlock Holmes is draped over the entirety of the sofa, limbs flopping off the ends and sides, his dark hair splayed in a mass of curls on the far arm. He looks entirely relaxed, sprawled out in such a way in his pyjamas – and if you were to omit the rest of the picture, it would appear that the detective was without company… not so.

John Watson sits in his armchair, leaning forwards, listening and occasionally offering a comment. His head moves around the room; he's obviously in conversation.

In the other armchair Lestrade is sprawled. He looks almost as relaxed as Sherlock, one arm slung casually over the arm of the chair, a grin on his face as he discusses animatedly. However, there's a notebook in his hand, and every so often he retracts the arm that's so casually placed, and scribbles something down with furrowed brow.

The fourth man does not sit. He arrived last and without warning or, John thinks, reason – and does not seem to deem any of the remaining seating alternatives as satisfactory. He stands by the hearth, leaning on his umbrella with his ankles crossed. Of the four men, he speaks the least; he's merely observing. Every so often, he opens his mouth to make a comment, but then his eyes slide to the Detective Inspector opposite him, and he closes it again – perhaps feeling the presence of the law more keenly than usual.

"Right," Lestrade says, raising his voice to interrupt a slight disagreement that has just arisen between John and Sherlock. He frowns, and John at least leans back in his chair looking suitably chastised. "Margaret, Mary, Sandra, Linda, Jane, Penny, Sarah – they're all _dead_."

"Apparently," Sherlock supplies, one of his arms twitching as he jumps to make the correction.

"Yes – they're all pretending to be dead." The DI consults his notebook again, and sighs. "They were _all_ involved in the setting up of Sky Anemone Pets – although Margaret owned that under her own name. They were also all involved in setting up JK Funeral Services under false identities, and all involved in setting up 'Dignity' – the human version of JK."

John swears quietly, scratching the side of his face.

"That's one hell of a list."

Lestrade inclines his head, smiles, and continues.

"The pet store was started with the sole purpose of poisoning the snakes they sold and in turn their own pets at home…"

His eyes flick back and forth over the page, and he mutters as he skims over his own haphazard notes.

"…and to make it much harder for the police to convict, because it looked like an accident."

"Maybe to some," Sherlock interjects haughtily. Everyone ignores him; all eyes still fixed on Greg.

"That then allowed the women to begin extracting money from their – very rich – partners without consent. However, in case that first business was caught out and shut down, they added another layer – faked their own deaths and extracted the rest of the money with 'Dignity'. They can leave the country with their millions. Done."

Lestrade snaps the notebook shut, and stares around the room. Three faces stare back, displaying varying levels of blankness.

"Sounds about right," John says, breaking the silence.

"Quite."

"Yes," Sherlock huffs, his voice significantly more icy than John's as he sits up and looks around – taking particular care to glare at his brother. "'About' would be the word – _don't_ paraphrase, Lestrade, especially when you're in a profession that requires precision and attention to detail."

Sherlock swings his legs from the sofa so that he's in a sitting position, sporting an expression that suggests he thinks no one at Scotland Yard has the level of skill required to do their jobs properly. This is not lost on the DI, who sighs, and flips open the notebook again.

The consulting detective gives a tiny smile, and leans forward to prop his head up on his elbows.

"We need to track these women down, Lestrade. I'll also need to question the rest of that WI group – given that the two businesses have shut down I highly doubt the rest were part of it…but it wouldn't do to be negligent. Provided the ladies haven't spent the money, I suspect their spouses would appreciate the return of what they've lost, too."

He leans back and runs one hand through his hair, looking rather carelessly beautiful. John flashes him a tiny smile, but his older brother frowns, disapproving. Undoubtedly he knew what he was doing.

"Yes, I know," Lestrade retorts, looking a little exasperated at being told how to do his job. He frowns. "I'll get a team on it – see if we can track credit cards, phones – "

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, possibly even to offer his particular services, but Sherlock gets there first.

"Pointless, you'll never find them – much too clever, they've just engineered a _very_ complex web of lies just to steal their husbands' cash." Sherlock takes a breath, and grins. "I'll do it."


	23. Criticising The Blog

**I know this is late. You'll really have to forgive me.**

**23.**

"…I reckon Sherlock had it all figured out since he started mumbling about funeral services whilst I was in the late stages of exhaustion…but he always does, doesn't he? To be honest, the highlight of this case _has _to be that voice Sherlock coined when we joined the WI – I kid you not, camp Sherlock Holmes has to be one of the best things I have ever heard in my life."

The man in question stops reading aloud, looks up from the laptop, and fixes John with a look of deep disgust. John tries not to giggle.

"It's true!" he protests, leaning on the front of Sherlock's desk so that he can look at the man who is currently scrutinising his latest blog entry. "It was hilarious. It's a wonder I didn't screw everything up just bloody _laughing_ at you."

John folds his arms across his chest and peers down at the detective, who has been silent since his disgusted quoting of the post. His face is frozen, twisted, oozing despair.

"Go on, then," John encourages, grinning. "What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock moves, glances up at his face, gives one short laugh… and continues perusing it.

When John says nothing, he looks back up again.

"Oh – you were serious."

It takes a good deal of self-restraint for the doctor not to roll his eyes, or even to not start to feel slightly put-out. Sherlock's eyes are narrowed at the webpage in obvious disdain – and the expression is not softened by jest – his dislike, as ever, is serious. It gets a bit wearing.

John uncrosses his arms, slowly blowing out air with puffed cheeks. He watches Sherlock's eyes flick lightening fast across the page, and his heart sinks.

"Come on: it's not that bad," he says, trying to inject joviality that he does not feel.

Sherlock frowns at him.

"For a start, we've not even finished the case…"

"Yeah, well," John interrupts very abruptly, shrugging. "It's nearly Christmas. It'll save me having to recall horrible scheming – well, when it's _supposed_ to be the season of goodwill…"

Sherlock does not appear to be listening, not that John ever expects any 'goodwill' to come from his flatmate.

"And as ever, you've put far too much emphasis on largely unimportant points. My voice – "

"Oh come _on_."

" – what bearing does that have on the crime? It barely warranted comment, but to claim it to be the 'highlight' of the case – "

"It's just a joke, Sherlock."

" – you need to focus on the stuff that matters, _how_ can you not see – "

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter!" John shouts, the volume of his voice surprising the man opposite him enough to halt his tirade. John glares at him.

He's surprised himself too – by just how annoyed he is, and by the weariness in his tone. He sighs, then spots the computer that Sherlock's using. The annoyance switches quickly to something close to anger, and John snatches _his _laptop from in front of the detective, snapping it shut.

"Can you _stop_ stealing my things, too," he snarls, marching straight out of the front door.

Sherlock stares after him, his face darkening into a scowl.


	24. Running Off

**It's Christmas Eve! There will be one more chapter, probably at around midnight (GMT). **

**24.**

Rain lashes against their faces as the pair leap from the cab, the water streaming from newly sopping hair into their eyes so that what looks close to a _palace_ with un-obscured vision swims and distorts before them in a swirl of stained glass and pale stone.

John and Sherlock sprint for the door.

* * *

"California, of _course_!" Sherlock exclaims, holding up a vase, his spare hand flying to his temple. He grins at his flatmate, eyes flashing. "She's in California, John!"

Sherlock dashes from the room, vase still in hand, with just a "phone Lestrade!" yelled over his shoulder.

When John gets back out into the rain the cab is gone.

* * *

He finally catches Sherlock up at Scotland Yard, where they now sit waiting in Lestrade's office.

A grumpy Sally has just been tasked with getting in touch with the US police to track down Margaret – through the glass she can be seen muttering darkly to Anderson and shooting filthy glances at Sherlock every few seconds.

Sherlock ignores her completely; he leans by the window, muttering into his phone. His voice is one long hiss of apparent malevolence, and when he stows his mobile in his jacket, lips pressed together in irritation, John smiles.

"Who was that?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock tells him darkly. "He owes me a favour. And the Home Office _always _owe him a favour."

He grins, the ire vanishing.

"Australia," he announces, wrenching open the office door.

* * *

"Tell me about Linda," Sherlock demands, flipping through a very old copy of the Yellow Pages, and sighing. He whips to face John, sending a pile of addressed envelopes onto expensive carpet.

"Uh – she's one of our suspects –did she have a Shetland pony?"

Sherlock huffs, gesticulating frantically with both hands in frustration.

"Yes, yes – hobbies, interests, quirks…"

"I dunno," John closes his eyes, trying to remember old snatches of conversation. "Horses, kids – no, _not_ kids – uh – boats?"

He sighs, running a hand over his face.

"Sherlock, I don't know. She probably lied to us anyway."

The detective gasps, hands flying upwards in realisation. He seizes John by his upper arms, and fixes him with a steely stare.

"John – who's Vettel?"

John blinks.

"Formula One driver, Sherlock, I don't…"

The detective releases him and sprints from the building, yelling out deductions at the top of his voice.

John follows, snarling in frustration when he sees the second cab of the day leaving without him.

* * *

"California, Australia, Monaco," Sherlock recites, gesturing at the scattering of pins on his newly erected map. "Come on, what are they doing? Is it random? Are they just going to their favourite holiday destinations – _THINK!_"

He spins around, hands in his hair, frustrated.

He gasps again. John looks up, muscles tensing in anticipation.

"I need to talk to Jane's husband," Sherlock blurts, almost tumbling straight down the stairs.

* * *

They sit eating lunch in a little café not a stone's throw from Scotland Yard. The sky is darkening already, and John's stomach snarls – he eats hungrily, feeling particularly grateful for the welcome break of pasta, tea, and not attempting to run after a consulting detective with inhumanly long legs and apparently no need to rest.

Sherlock himself picks at a sandwich, although it's testimony to the day they've had that John's managed to cajole him into having anything at all. Largely, he stares at a point somewhere over John's head, his eyes unfocussed.

"So," John says, hurriedly shovelling another mouthful of his food in, in case Sherlock decides to take off again. "Between you, Lestrade and Mycroft, we've got the addresses of everyone – except Penny."

John scans the notebook that Sherlock's pinched from the Yard, where five addresses are scribbled hastily out in Lestrade's handwriting.

"Mainly me," Sherlock corrects, although he sounds distracted.

"Yes, I know – I was there."

He chews thoughtfully, then remembers who he was eating with, and speeds it up a bit.

"Any ideas, then?"

Sherlock's eyes refocus, and he looks at John, as if considering him.

"Five."

John swallows.

"Go on."

"No," Sherlock drawls, sounding bored. "I can easily disprove all of them – _oh_."

He gets up very suddenly, knocking the table so that it scrapes across the floor. His eyes are wide, realisation dawning. John sighs, and grabs one last forkful and a swig of tea.

"What if she never left, John? What if she's still here?"

"You don't th – " John's voice falters, and his eyes flick to meet pale, excited ones. "The Lake District?"

"She told us," Sherlock says, smiling.

"Brilliant."

There's a pause, in which two pairs of eyes move to fix on the door.

"The art of disguise _is_ knowing how to hide in plain sight," Sherlock states, quirking one eyebrow. "Coming?"


	25. Everything Else

**A very Merry Christmas to you all! I hope you enjoy this, and thank you so very much for reading.**

**+ 1**

John stands beside Sherlock, panting hard. Their breath rises in swirling white clouds before their eyes, mingling in the night air before it disappears completely. Both men are leant over slightly, trying to catch it, inhaling lungfuls of wonderful oxygen. John straightens first, and rests his head on the dank alley wall behind him, grinning. Beside him and still breathing heavily, Sherlock's smile is just as wide as he mirrors the movement.

A violently struggling Penny has just been bundled into the back of a police car, and despite the bruises John can feel blossoming under his skin, he can't quite pinpoint how he could make these first few hours of Christmas morning any more perfect.

Sherlock's wide smile and breathlessness seem to indicate the sentiment is reciprocated.

Well – maybe not 'sentiment' – but that end-of-case buzz, the shared triumph of one more criminal behind bars, the surge of adrenaline and sudden exhausting crash.

They both live for these moments.

John suddenly becomes very aware of the rain that's soaked through all his clothes, that's causing goosepimples to rise on his skin and eliciting violent shivering. He looks sideways at Sherlock – still smiling and breathing hard – and realises that the detective beside him is just as drenched as he is, his dark hair slicked to his skull with water, his long coat sodden. Streams of water flow over his skin, and John knows he looks just the same. It's wonderful.

It's that thrill, that shared rush of adrenaline, that undeniable high of chasing criminals through the streets of London, of shouting and grabbing blindly, of pinning people to the ground and sniggering as Sherlock makes unhelpful comments while they wait for the police. It's worth the punch in the face and bruised ribs, worth the rainwater and the screaming of lungs.

It's worth it for the reminder of quite why John still lives with this brilliant man, and how Sherlock, horrifically soppy as it sounds and is, saved him. Saves.

Now, don't get him wrong: there are many, many things about his flatmate that are extremely irritating; if not downright bloody inconsiderate and rude.

Nonetheless, in the spirit of Christmas, John would like to make a few amendments to his list:

1. Interrupted dates. Yes. Very, very irritating. Probably one of Sherlock's worst habits. Having said that – and John will never tell Sherlock this – his company is better than any girl's. Even if he is an irritating little sod.

2. John wishes he'd remember the milk sometimes. But, if he's honest, it won't kill him to nip down to Tescos every so often. No one's perfect.

3. Getting arrested…that definitely is one of Sherlock most – unhelpful – talents. John Watson doesn't really want a criminal record, especially when he hasn't actually done anything. However, there's something of a thrill that comes when you're trying to escape from uniformed police officers in the dead of night. He'd just rather they didn't get caught.

4. He doesn't really mind Sherlock sleeping on him.

5. Mycroft is annoying, yes. John suspects it's a family trait. However, he is useful sometimes.

6. John _loves_ Sherlock's ridiculous, far-fetched plans to extract some obscure piece of information. It's exciting.

_7. Nothing_ beats the 'camp voice'.

8. If John had to change something about Sherlock, he'd probably like him to care more, to acknowledge that the people caught up in crime were real human beings; that they _mattered_. But Sherlock _works_ how he is, and he saves lives and brings people to justice. John wouldn't want to tamper with that ability.

9. Poor Molly. Poor, poor Molly. John envies no one with a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

10. Texting at work is annoying. However, it is also sometimes informative and actually more fun than work.

11. John hates feeling tired. He also hates the stomach ache that comes of improved coffee. What he doesn't hate is staying up all night with Sherlock solving crimes.

12. Much as John wishes that, just once, Sherlock would _listen _to him when he says things, he is also guilty of ignoring what Sherlock says, although largely because the man is a prat.

13. Sherlock's bad moods border on unbearable. However, John knows that he has quite a temper on him, too.

14. Something else John will never tell Sherlock – he's actually flattered that the detective patronises him as little as he does. Doesn't stop it being – well, patronising.

15. God, the tears. John is impressed by the obvious talent, but it makes him feel bad, manipulating people's emotions like that. Nonetheless, Sherlock only uses it in his crime solving exploits, something John respects.

16. Sherlock is only silent when John _doesn't want him to be_. He supposes it's encouraging to know he has the ability.

17. Contrary to what he may try and tell himself, John _loves_ Sherlock's odd, morbid and frankly slightly disturbing sense of humour. He likes that they can laugh at the scene of a brutal murder just as they can laugh at Sherlock's brother.

18. Yes, Sherlock is very thoughtless when he speaks. Yes, John hates it. No, he doubts he would change it. Don't ask.

19. Why Sherlock cannot be civil to one of the few men who actually give him the time of day, John cannot fathom. However, there's a tiny (and selfish) part of him that is actually glad all the rudeness and cutting remarks aren't reserved just for him.

20. Also: why can Sherlock not behave like an adult for once? Even if the childlike enthusiasm does rather go with his genius…

21. Resentment was also childish. Very childish. Somehow it also bloody fitted into Sherlock's ridiculous and horrible personality.

22. Why was it that John got the feeling that a modest consulting detective would be more annoying than the arrogant bastard he currently lived with? Probably because he was a masochistic idiot, but somehow the arrogance _fit_ Sherlock. It made him more impressive.

23. Sherlock does not understand blogs. John knows this and will try not to judge him for it.

24. John loves chasing after Sherlock. And if he didn't run off, John would have no one to follow.

The two men's breathing calms and they set off down the street in search of a cab home. Sherlock shakes his head like a wet dog, showering John in even more water and making him laugh.

And, John thinks, as they climb into the cab and start bickering about something that John can't quite recall later – much as Sherlock Holmes _is _the biggest idiot he's ever met, he quite simply couldn't live without him.

Not in the lovestruck teenager sense – _God_, no – he just can't put it any other way.

He'd _survive_ quite easily, but he wouldn't be – alive.

He glances sideways at the man sat beside him.

Sherlock's brow is furrowed but his lips are curved into a smile – and he gazes at the back of the cabbie's head as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world, seemingly absorbed. The glow of streetlights and Christmas decorations are reflected in his icy eyes.

John smiles, and looks out of the window.

He's still going to force Sherlock to help him put up that tree.

He's going to _hate_ it.


End file.
